


Taker of Souls

by jscribbles



Category: Supernatural, The Evil Dead (1981 2013)
Genre: Blood, Body mutilation, Crossover, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Gore, Hallucinations, Inspired By, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mud, Nightmares, Pining, Possession, Self Harm, Sickness, Slow Burn, Smut, Sweat, Vomiting, canon-calibre discussions of religion, dcbb2018, dub-con, horror-imagery, minor prescription drug use, non-con, offensive language/insults, shameless use of horror movie tropes, spoilers for The Witch, temporary major character death, the boys cry, the evil dead 2013, xover, zombie-type characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 128,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16185989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/pseuds/jscribbles
Summary: The angels have fallen. Castiel is human, Sam is recovering from the trials, and Dean doesn’t want to expose them to the world as it’s crumbling outside the bunker doors.To pass time in their solitude, Dean discovers a hidden room in the bunker full of dangerous magical artifacts and accidentally exposes his friends and family to an ancient horror. If Castiel thought adjusting to humanity was already a terror in itself, he experiences a world of pain when the ancient spirit Dean released chooses him as a vessel to fulfill its evil prophecy.Castiel begins to change as voices call out to him in the night and take the form of the one righteous man he desires, temptation drawing him to complete a ritual that will allow one of Hell’s most feared ancient entities to occupy his vessel.Before Sam, Dean, Kevin and Crowley know what is happening, they are thrown into a lockdown, unable to escape the bunker as the cruel, twisted monster inside of Castiel prowls the hallways, hunting them, thirsty for their blood, hungry for their souls.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Taker of Souls, a fic written by jscribbles for the 2018 DeanCas Big Bang. All art, including page breaks and banners were created by jdragon122.
> 
> The art is embedded, but we also have a link to the art masterpost so y'all can go give jdragon122 all the love she deserves: https://jdragon122.tumblr.com/post/178878815880/art-for-dcbb-2018-taker-of-souls-by
> 
>  
> 
> **Author's Note:**  
> 
> 
> There is no need to watch The Evil Dead movie first or know anything about the plot or lore to enjoy this story -- all lore gets explained. However, I highly recommend watching the movie if you love horror because it is so kick-ass.
> 
>  This fic was inspired by scenes, events, and lore in the 2013 Evil Dead movie. There are references, scenes, and plot points that directly paralleled to the events from the movie, so if you recognize something, then it’s from there. I'll also do my best to point them out at the end of the chapters. The monster itself is from the Evil Dead (2013) movie, but I twisted its lore to fit into Supernatural canonical events and timelines. I think, outside of the monster's title, it ended up being more of a nod to the original character.
> 
>   **Thanks:**  
> 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the fandom friends I made through this challenge that were (and continue to be) the best cheerleaders a writer could ask for. Thanks to everyone in the DCBB18 Discord channel who brainstormed with each other and made this challenge so fun and inspiring. And thank you so much to the mods, **Jojo** and **Muse** , who did an excellent job of running this challenge.
> 
> Endless thanks to my alpha, **MalMuses** , who put up with my shrieking, overwriting, freakouts, and whining for validation for months and months. She exercised endless patience, offered so many valuable words of wisdom, and cracked so many whips to get me to finish this. I feel like I don't have words to express how lucky I am to have such a kick-ass friend and alpha. Also, my Enochian translations would be complete trash without her genius, nerdy help. xD
> 
> Also, so many thanks to all the eyes I had working on this fic as betas. My lovely betas were **son_of_a_bitch_supernatural** , **Kazshero** , and **EllenofOz**. These are all exquisite people that dedicated their time to ensure that this monster of a fic wasn't unreadable. My heart belongs to them.
> 
> Finally, an enormous thank you to **jdragon122** , the beautiful soul who made the art, the banner, and the scene breaks for this fic. **jdragon122** is lovely, inspirational, collaborative, and ridiculously talented. I lucked out on having her pick my fic, because the pieces that she made to accompany this fanfiction are exactly right and just as I imagined them. 
> 
> Enjoy the fruits of my labour. This baby took six months to write, and while at times I wanted to yank my hair out, it certainly was some of the most fun I've had in a while. Please don't hate me too much for all the pain Cas and Dean are about to go through... it's worth it, I promise.  
>    
> Love, 
> 
> jscribbles

 

* * *

 

The night air was cool and damp. The ground was dark and glistening from the rain that had passed through Lebanon earlier that day.

Castiel’s hand, resting on the cold steel railing outside of the Men of Letters bunker, was wet with raindrops and dew. He slid it off the railing and looked down at it, sighing heavily. His breath came out in curly, twisting clouds in front of his face. He felt a twinge of discomfort from the water on his palm and wiped his hands on his jeans, frowning out into the empty, desolate service road adjacent to the bunker.

In the distance, peeking through the dense forestry across the street, twinkling factory lights taunted him. He tried not to recall the memory of twinkling lights streaked across the sky only a few nights ago, and he tried not to remember the image of his brothers and sisters breaking through the floors of heaven and lighting up Earth’s sky.

He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

It had been days since his transgression, since his pride had destroyed all of his home and displaced thousands of his family members. _I am not wrong_ , he recalled, hearing his own voice in his head. Behind his eyes he saw angels leaving fiery trails across starscapes and ignited wings erupting from their backs, disintegrating as they pierced the atmosphere.

Abruptly, Castiel shoved his cold hands in his pockets, sinking into a place of pain and anxiety. His chest rose and fell with every shallow breath he took.

He still had no idea what was going on with Heaven, with Metatron, with Naomi. His brothers and sisters fell, but were their grace still intact? Did they have vessels? Did they live? Did they _know_ what he did? Questions spun in his mind so quickly that his eyes snapped open, fighting an overwhelming feeling of nervous dizziness.

When he had been an angel, he could control his emotions and compartmentalize his thoughts, but as a human, the worrying made him feel nothing but nausea and a gnawing sensation in his heart. The thoughts spun so fast in his brain that he felt sick from it. The emotions were overwhelming. So overwhelming that sometimes he had to take a pause in the dark in an attempt to catch his breath and sort out what he was feeling. It didn’t work, but he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with the sensations yet. He was too embarrassed to ask Dean or Sam. They’d mock him—especially Dean. Without the numbing control he’d possessed as an angel, he didn’t think he could quiet handle Dean’s mockery just yet.

He didn’t understand how humans felt all of these emotions their entire lives and didn’t die from the weight of them. If the pain of guilt alone could kill, Castiel would have been dead the moment his mortal feet had touched the ground.

“Hey! Cas, are you fucking nuts?”

Castiel jumped a bit, turning to face Dean, who stood at the bunker door with a look of angry disbelief on his face.

“Dude, you can’t be out here alone,” Dean snapped, stepping out into the cool fall air, his arms crossing tightly across his chest.

 _He’s cold_ , thought Castiel offhandedly, eyes flickering down to Dean’s arms, noting raised goosebumps and a brief shiver. _I’m cold too,_ he added, feeling the skin on his own arms tighten and raise. It was unnerving and unpleasant.

Castiel looked back to Dean’s face, his expression guarded.

“I can take care of myself, Dean,” Castiel murmured, before turning away from him.

Dry leaves crunched under heavy combat boots as Dean slowly walked up the steps, stopping beside him. Castiel felt Dean’s body heat against his side and caught a whiff of leather and worn cologne. He had a hard time finding words to truly identify the scent, and thought that if he had his powers, he could have listed every note in the fragrance without hesitation.

As a human, Castiel thought the cologne smelled how warmth felt. He inhaled deeply.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, but Castiel knew it was a lie. Dean hadn’t left Castiel’s side since the angels fell. It was touching that Dean cared so much but the overprotection was starting to feel obnoxious. “But you haven’t gotten the angel warding tattoos yet, so for now just humour me and stay inside where it’s safe. We’ll get that taken care of tomorrow.”

“You’ve been saying that for days. I’m starting to believe ‘tomorrow’ will never come,” Castiel said.

Dean snorted at Castiel’s grumpy tone.

“Yeah, well, Sam’s still recovering from the trials. I can’t be here with him and out getting you tattoos at the same time. Relax, we’ve got time.”

Castiel bristled and decided he did not enjoy being told to ‘relax’, but Dean must have sensed it because he leaned sideways, nudging him, green eyes searching the side of his face. Castiel turned and finally looked at Dean.

Dean smiled tightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit. At the sight of the small gesture, Castiel felt himself relax and the tightness of anxiety in his chest lessen slightly.

“We don’t know what’s happening out there, Cas, but those dicks probably aren’t happy with you,” Dean explained. “There’s too much we don’t know and it’s just smarter to stick together and hole up while everything is up in the air. Buddy system.”

The crinkly smile lingered and Castiel found he couldn’t feel too annoyed at being secluded when Dean was trying so hard to keep him and everyone else safe. As he and Dean looked at each other, Castiel found himself smiling too. It was weak and maybe a bit forced, but it was there, his lip tilting up in the corner.

“You’re probably right.”

Dean patted Castiel on the shoulder. “Learn those words, Cas. You’re gonna be saying them often.”

“You’re insufferable, Dean,” Castiel murmured, rolling his eyes—a quirk he’d quickly picked up from Sam. Castiel began to turn and head down the steps back to the bunker.

Dean’s hand slipped off his shoulder.

Dean knew everyone was going stir crazy. Sam slept most days to pass the time and recover from the trials, Cas was strangely quiet and reserved, spending a lot of time in his room, and Kevin was starting to leave piles of notes in different rooms of the bunker as he attempted to “get a change of scenery”.

They had all been locked in the bunker for days with no idea of when it would be safe to leave. Dean knew they were all a little bit resentful of it but… Dean just wanted everyone to be safe. He was finally—after years of impulsively running headlong into chaos—done with it. He put his foot down. He was implementing a full freeze on bull-headed mistakes and impulsive reactions. They were going to hide, they were going to get their shit together, and he was going to take care of his family before taking care of all of the chaos that was happening outside of the bunker doors.

Also, he was scared. Under his skin buzzed the nagging feeling that he was too old for this, he was in way over his head, and he had no idea what he was doing.

Days ago, while angels still fell violently from Heaven, streaking through the sky and landing in craters all around them, Dean had made the decision that he couldn’t handle this. It was too big. It was too much.

They hadn’t completed the trials. Hell was still open, Abbadon and Naomi were probably still out there, and _angels were falling from the fucking sky_. The world could be ending for all they knew.

They had been at the end of times before, but this time it seemed too overwhelming, too sudden. Maybe he was getting old. Maybe the life was getting to him. Maybe he finally had enough of demons and angels and all the bullshit that came with being in the middle of the two.

He’d had Sam writhing and screaming in his passenger seat and Castiel in the backseat who was suddenly very human, looking shaken and frightened.

He didn’t know what to expect from his brother. He didn’t know if he was dying or what the trials would do to him if unfinished. He just knew he wanted the noises Sam was making to stop, he wanted his forearms to stop glowing, and his chest to stop heaving.

And Cas? He wanted to look back into the rear view mirror and see strength and resolve, not wide panicked eyes with a glaze of tears trembling on the surface. The eyes were blue, so blue, and not hiding anything.

He had been counting on Cas to come to the rescue. He hadn’t anticipated, when his phone rang mid-chaos, for Cas to need rescuing.

_“Where are you?”_

There had been silence.

_“Cas, hello? I don’t have time for this. Cas? Where are you?”_

_“... I’m human.”_ Cas’s breaths were shaky, audible through the phone. There was a waver in his voice that made Dean feel uneasy. “ _Come get me. Please.”_

Even if Cas hadn’t whispered with shaky breaths into the phone that he was human, Dean would have been able to know just by looking at him in the rearview mirror. He spent a lot of time searching Castiel’s eyes, he’d know a change when he saw it.

Once they reached the bunker, with Cas’ help, he’d managed to drag his brother down the stairs and into his bedroom, ignoring Kevin’s incessant panicking about the bunker lockdown. And when Sam had gone quiet and limp, his heartbeat slow and faint, Dean had swiftly exited Sam’s room. He’d broken down, legs shaking and knees giving out. Castiel, who was fallen and terrified, held Dean in the hallway outside of Sam’s room, letting him cry into the lapels of his trenchcoat and tremble in his arms. It was too much, too fast. He couldn’t lose Sam again… He just couldn’t.

But Sam’s pulse strengthened, and in the days to come, he would begin to eat and leave his room. He’d stop flexing his hands and the wound on his right palm would begin to heal.

After a week, Dean would start to believe him when he insisted that he was fine. One morning, when Sam sat down tiredly at the table and asked Dean how Castiel was doing, what was happening with the angels, and asked about the progress of the angel tablet, Dean had begun to concretely believe that maybe not everything was going to shit and maybe some things would turn out all right.

Still, even with Sam making a recovery, Dean didn’t neglect the small problem of Castiel’s humanity. It was impossible to ignore when Cas was in the room. He walked different, he spoke different, he even smelled different.

He was more closed as he walked, arms tighter into his body. He didn’t swing them as much, and he developed a habit of shoving his hands in pockets or putting them in his mouth, chewing on his nails. It was like he was suddenly completely aware of his body language, how he moved himself, how he held his posture.

Dean wondered if maybe Cas hadn’t needed to think about this stuff when he was an angel. Cas probably hadn’t been conscious of how he moved, or maybe that kind of automatic instinct had been something passed down by Jimmy.

Dean watched Cas speak and noticed more expression on his face, more emotion conveyed by his features and in his tone. It was simultaneously depressing and intriguing. His mouth was more expressive; his lips spread a bit when he smiled—the odd time that he actually smiled—crooked to the right, flashing his white, straight teeth. He licked his lips when he was nervous. His teeth gnawed gently at his bottom lip when he was thoughtful.

And he smelled like… Well, Dean noticed it on the first night back at the bunker as Cas held him close in the hallway. Cas used to smell crisp and sterile, almost like a hospital but without the anti-septic aroma. As a human, he smelled soft and kind of musky, like linen and cinnamon.

Dean knew Cas was suffering. More often than not, Dean caught him staring off into space, his eyes sad and longing, brows furrowed and a frown etched onto his lips. He slept too much, was oddly quiet, and spent most waking hours helping Kevin with the tablets or alone in his room. He didn’t offer up any information about how he was feeling or thinking, and when pressed, he was short and dismissive, changing the subject from his new humanity to research he’d done on the tablets.

The only thing other than the tablets that he seemed to care about was the subject of the fallen angels; the one subject Dean didn’t want to touch just yet. It was too frightening and overwhelming… and what Dean knew about the situation wasn’t something he wanted to share with Cas just yet. He wasn’t ready to deal with the pain it would cause his friend. It was hard enough seeing him struggle to adapt.

One day, Castiel asked them if they had a cable, and Dean knew he only cared about it because he wanted to watch the news for any information about the angels. Before Sam had opened his mouth to offer his laptop, Dean had shut him down.

_“Everyone’s just confused about meteors falling from the sky, Cas. There’s nothing else to see. There’s nothing.”_

The defeated look on Cas’ face had made him feel wretched.

While a lot of things didn’t go right in Dean’s life, he was pleased to see Sam was making a swift recovery. A few days after he’d began leaving his room, eating bigger meals, spending more time out of bed, and looking like he might’ve gotten more than two hours of sleep, Sam announced he was going to start running again.

Also, Kevin made a breakthrough with two words on the angel tablet. Dean actually felt like they had some wins, even if they were small.

Feeling optimistic, twelve days after the falling angels, Dean finally took Cas out.

Cas sat at a Men of Letters library table, eyes furiously scanning Kevin’s notes, his mind elsewhere and his fingers in his mouth as he chewed his nails.

Dean approached him from behind, clapping him on the shoulder. Cas jumped and Kevin shot Dean a pissed off look for breaking his concentration.

“Feel like going for a ride?” Dean asked cheerfully.

Cas hesitated, then turned back to the mad scribbles, shaking his head. “No,” he murmured, “I’ll stay here and help Kevin.”

Kevin sat up straighter and pursed his lips at Dean. “Please take him. He keeps messing up my notes. It’s really annoying.”

Dean chuckled and Cas opened his hands up in disbelief, shaking his head at Kevin as if he’d betrayed him.

“Sorry, Kevin,” Cas grumbled, not sounding sorry at all. He turned in his seat to narrow his eyes at Dean. “Are you sure you want me to come with you? I’m un-warded.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean shrugged. “We’ll be quick. Real quick. I’ll bring an angel blade so I can get stabby if I need to.”

Cas looked unconvinced but also torn. Dean could tell by the glance Cas made towards the exit that he wanted to come, that he was eager to get out of the bunker for a little while.

He stood and followed Dean.

Cas slid into the passenger seat in the Impala and sighed, looking resigned.

“Where are we going?” Castiel asked as Dean turned on the ignition.

“We’ve got some errands to run.” Dean threw the car in drive and waved absentmindedly at Cas’ body. “Also, you need some of your own clothes. I’m tired of you wearing my stuff.”

Cas glanced down at the Black Sabbath t-shirt and old torn jeans that hung loosely on his hips. With sincerity, he said, “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Don’t sweat it, Cas. I was the one that offered. It’s just about time you got your own stuff, y’know? Something to fill those drawers in your room.” Dean looked over at Cas, noting the embarrassed look on his face. Quickly, Dean joked, “I also hate doing laundry and it’s been _a lot_ lately, so…”

Cas flashed him a fake smile, looking away quickly.

They drove the fifteen minutes into town in silence, Cas watching the forest turn to city through the side window, and Dean watching Cas frown out into the world.

When the forestry cleared, Dean noticed Cas tilt his head upwards and stare up at the sky to Heaven. He noticed Cas’ adam’s apple bob a few times, and noticed a small wince flutter across his features. Dean knew that expression, and it made him want to reach out and grab Castiel’s hand to offer some semblance of comfort. His fingers twitched on the steering wheel as he thought about it, but his knuckles turned white, gripping the wheel harder instead.

He shook his head, attempting to shake off the urge to hold Cas’ hand. His mind had other ideas though, because he found himself imagining them pulled over to the side of the road, and imagining what it would be like to kiss Cas, to coax the pain off his face with his lips.

The dynamics between them had always been rife with emotional tension, with feelings neither could communicate because of social circumstance or cosmic responsibility. Dean didn’t believe for a moment that Castiel wasn’t aware of it too. Maybe Cas had even been aware long before Dean had been that their _thing_ ran deeper than a celestial profound bond.

Dean thought of _“I did all of it, for you”._ He remembered emotion-filled eyes begging him for trust over the hot flicker of angel fire. He thought of Castiel, who always came when he called, who betrayed everything he ever loved for Dean.

This thing with Cas had never been platonic and Dean thought Cas might’ve always known that. It just took Dean a bit longer to realise it too.

Dean thought of himself, kneeling in front of Cas, rasping, _“I need you.”_ The memory was carved into every corner of his mind. It had been the first time he’d said those words out loud, words that he’d thought dozens of times before when Cas flew away or disappeared with no inclination of where he’d be or if he’d ever be seen again.

Kneeling in front of Cas, confessing his need for him, was when Dean realised that what he felt for Cas wasn’t just some celestial profound bond, and he didn’t fucking think of him as a brother or family.

The realization shook him to his core, but he couldn’t deny how freeing it had been to finally let himself acknowledge his feelings for Cas.

He needed Cas and not because he was useful to have around. Whatever was between them was fire, it was electricity. No amount of macho bullshit that his dad tried to pound into his brain could truly lead Dean to deny that his bond with Cas ran so deep it must’ve been prophesied by fate.

Dean could break their stares and make jokes about strippers and boobs all he wanted, but he couldn’t effectively deny to himself anymore that Cas stood too close, touched too much, and that Dean was falling hard. He’d always been falling for Cas, but now that he was human, that they were equals, it was nearly impossible to fight anymore.

But pulling over and kissing Cas would complicate things. They had too much to deal with right now. The state of Heaven and Hell lay floating above them, pressing down on them, volatile and unpredictable. They had the King of Hell in their dungeon, and Sam was recovering from the trials, and Kevin scrambled to decode the tablets.

And Dean feared with everything in him that Cas was being hunted. Heaven had it out for him for years, so there was no reason why they wouldn’t want to hurt him more now that they’d fallen. Even if they didn’t know he was responsible for it, Dean had, over time, watched too many angels turn on Cas to comfortably think Cas was safe now.

He stole another glance at Cas, and saw the hands he wanted to hold were squeezed into fists. Dean looked up at Castiel’s face and saw misery etched into every line in his skin. Pain sat trembling wetly on his lashes. Cas looked far away, eyes unfocused as he stared out the windshield.

Dean turned his gaze back to the road ahead.

There was a reason he chose a random Tuesday morning to go to Walmart. The store was dead.

Dean and Cas made up a portion of the small number of patrons, and the only other people were a few employees in blue vests walking the aisles and gathering around their tills to chat.

They didn’t run into too many other shoppers. That was how Dean wanted it to be; he needed to be able to see who was around and know who to watch in case they were attacked.

Dean was on edge, closely watching anyone who got too close to them. It occurred to him that maybe he was being too paranoid when he nearly stabbed a mother who’d accidentally bumped into Cas with her stroller.

“Oops! Sorry,” she apologized, shifting the toddler on her hip, oblivious to the swift death she just avoided, “these strollers are massive. I’m a bad driver.”

“It’s not a problem. And I’m sure you’re not a bad driver,” Castiel reassured her, smiling kindly and moving around a rack of clothing to let her pass. As she made her way past him and disappeared into the kids section, the smile dropped off Cas’ face and he shook his head at Dean. His eyes flickered down to the angel blade Dean was concealing inside his leather jacket.

Cas pursed his lips and clenched his jaw, looking annoyed.

Dean shrugged sheepishly and was about to make a joke when Cas squeezed past him in the small aisle.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he announced abruptly.

Dean moved to follow him, but Cas stopped, nearly causing Dean to run right into his back. Over his shoulder, Cas frowned, adding, “Alone, Dean. I can go to the bathroom alone. I’ll manage.”

“Right, I… right, okay.” Dean nodded, shrugging awkwardly. “I know that.”

Cas sighed wearily and walked away, ordering, “Don’t follow me.”

Dean knew Castiel was just about done with being overly protected, he could feel his irritation about being mother-henned, but... it was in Dean’s nature. Since they’d stepped into the building Dean hadn’t done much but imagine that every person was secretly an angel or demon just waiting to gank Cas in the middle of the clothing department.

Dean paced through the racks, trying to respect Cas’ wish to not be followed. He grabbed some plain t-shirts and threw them over his shoulder, trying to guess Castiel’s size.

He was three shirts and one pair of jeans in before Dean checked his watch and muttered, “Screw this.”

He threw the pile of clothing on top of a clearance bin of DVDs and went to find the bathroom like he was on a mission.

Trying to act naturally as he approached the bathroom door, he cleared his throat and stopped himself from reaching for the blade again. As quietly as he could, Dean pushed open the door a bit and ducked, looking for his old pair of combat boots under the stall doors. His stomach turned when there was no one in sight.

“Cas?” he barked, eyes darting around the bathroom, looking for a head of messy brown hair and a Black Sabbath t-shirt.

Nothing.

“Damn it,” Dean whispered, turning on his heel and letting the door slam behind him.

Dean was admittedly frantic. He jogged through the aisles, expecting every stranger to turn on him with black eyes or attack him with an angel blade slipped out of a sleeve. But no one did. No one seemed like they’d overheard a commotion or just seen the body of a six-foot tall brunette with a swimmer's build lying in a pool of his own blood by the groceries.

A few people did look at Dean strangely when he called out for Cas repeatedly, and one mother even shot him a look of pity. No doubt she assumed Dean was frantically looking for a kid he’d misplaced.

When Dean found Cas standing in the electronics section, he almost stabbed him with the angel blade just out of sheer annoyance that he’d scared the daylights out of him.

The only thing that stopped him from exacting his anger on Cas was the hard line of Cas’ shoulders and the hands balled into fists at his sides. The new human stood in front of a wall of television sets, watching footage of angels falling from the sky in 4K.

News script scrolled across the screen underneath the clip; _“Media still awaits word from NASA about mystery meteor shower… Spike in emergency room intake following meteor storm continues to shock health care professionals… The confusion grows as more suited men and women wash up on global seashores… ”_

Dean stopped at Cas’ side, dread settling in his stomach. He should have known he could only hide this from Cas for so long.

Before Dean could try to pull him away, a message appeared on the TV, warning for parental discretion and of violent imagery. On the screen, the clip changed to footage from emergency rooms, crammed with people in suits, broken, bleeding, screaming, their faces blurred for privacy.

The clip changed again and shaky cell phone footage recorded civilians in Thailand pulling bodies from the water, corpses and live victims in suits, some bleeding from their backs where wings would have been. Then footage from came in from England, Australia, Brazil, Japan, Canada --

Dean put a hand on Cas’ arm, giving him a small shake. “Come on, man… you shouldn’t watch this.”

Cas raised a hand to shush him and his wide eyes remained fixed on the screen. An anchorman leaned towards the television, eyes following the teleprompter.

_“The influx of hospital patients has increased patient care by 300% in the past twelve days. Some municipalities have opened emergency relief centers in local community buildings. Victims claim to be lost and suffer from mass amnesia, while other health care professionals report religious delirium en masse, many victims claiming affiliation with heaven, others claiming angelic powers. Professionals can only speculate at this point why --”_

The televisions suddenly switched channels. Dean and Cas found themselves watching something called “The Backyardigans”. Pink and yellow dinosaur animations danced on the screen in front of them.

Cas stepped back, shaken. “What? Where did it go?”

“Sorry, bro,” someone said behind him. Cas and Dean turned, watching a teenage Walmart employee lower a remote down onto the cash desk. He raised his hands like a surrender and winced at them. “I had no idea they were gonna play that, uh, like, gory stuff, you know? My bad.”

“Put it back,” Cas ordered.

The employee shook his head, “No way, man. We can’t play that here. This is a family-friendly store.”

Cas looked ready to throttle the kid, but Dean stepped in and grabbed him by the arm, steering him down an aisle lined with DVDs. They got four or five strides in when Cas yanked his arm away, rounding on Dean with eyes like poison.

“You… you knew this was happening and you hid it from me.”

Dean threw his arms up in the air, letting them come down hard at his sides in a show of frustration.

Cas watched him, eyes blazing.

Dean raised his hands to his face, rubbing at his forehead. After swallowing hard, he admitted steadily, “I was trying to protect you. I was gonna tell you when the time was right.”

Cas, in a very human gesture, raised his hands to his hair, gripping it in his fingers for a second, looking broken. “I could have been out there all this time. I could have helped, I could have provided comfort. I-I could have explained. I could have been working on fixing this. I --”

“Castiel!” Dean barked irately, stepping closer to him. He pulled Cas’ hands down from his hair, gripping his wrists and holding them in the small space between their bodies. He shook the wrists gently.

Dean tried to get a grip on himself, to shake off his frustration. He tried to remember that _he_ had been the one hiding the secret this time, that he needed to have patience with Cas. If anyone knew how hard it was to think rationally when it came to family, it was Dean.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and ducked his head down, forcing Cas to meet his eye.

“Castiel, if you try to go to them,” he said carefully, the next words from his mouth slow and deliberate, “they will kill you.”

Cas’ eyelids fluttered and he looked down, swallowing hard, adam’s apple bobbing. He paled quickly. For a moment, he looked like he might actually throw up.

Dean maintained his grip on Cas’ wrists. In his grasp, Cas’ fists loosened until his fingers went limp, curling gently. Dean saw red divots in skin where Cas’ nails had dug into his palms.

“Are… are they all human then?” Castiel asked quietly.

Dean swallowed and shrugged, shaking his head, “We don’t know. Could be. Or they’re just out of juice for now. We don’t know if they’re angel or human, Cas, but some of them seem to remember being angels and, y’know, stuff about Heaven. And the ones that do will be looking for you.”

Dean stared at Cas’ face as he looked anywhere but at him, staring around the store with eyes storming with emotion. His lips were pursed, his jaw was tight, and his nose and eyes were red. He was holding back tears.

“We’ll translate the tablet,” Dean reassured, doing his best to channel the comforting nature that Sam projected when speaking to trauma victims. “We’ll translate all of it, and hopefully, among all the other junk that’s written on it, there’s a reversal for the angels falling, for opening Heaven again, okay? That’s all we can do right now. It’s all we have.”

Dean released Cas’ wrists, wincing when he saw that the skin there was irritated and red.

Slowly, like he was waiting for permission or for Cas to reject him, Dean wrapped one arm around Cas’ waist and slid the other one around his shoulders. To his surprise and relief, Cas hugged back, his arms sliding under Dean’s coat and tightening around Dean’s ribs.

“Dean, what have I done?”

They had come to the store for a reason and while it had felt more natural to take Cas back to the bunker, they really needed to run errands and Dean wanted to minimize the amount of time they spent in public, un-warded and unprotected.

Dean quickly grabbed Cas some t-shirts, all plain, and a few pairs of jeans. He got him a few sweaters, a hoodie, new boots, socks, and underwear. Dean had paused at a grey trench coat but then decided against it. He picked him out a dark blue cargo jacket instead.

When his arms grew tired, Dean walked over to his somber companion. Cas was sitting up against a mirror on the floor, elbows on his knees. His eyes were far away and distracted as he rubbed his palm absentmindedly. Dean dumped the clothing beside Cas.

“There’s most of it,” he announced. “Is there anything else you think you want?”

Cas blinked and then looked over at the pile distractedly. Seemingly coming back to reality, he mumbled, “I don’t know what I want.”

“Yeah, I figured, so I grabbed you whatever. It’s mostly, y’know, grey and blue and white, some black. I think I’m kinda colour blind though, so there might be some red in there but I’m not sure.”

“I don’t care, Dean.”

Dean crouched down in front of Cas, pouting his lips as he pondered. Then Dean offered lightly, “I know. I didn’t really used to care what I wore either, but it’s kind of good for you to have your own wardrobe, y’know? You get to choose how people look at you. It’s like, uh, an expression of who you are.”

Cas sighed and narrowed his eyes at Dean. “I’ve been human for twelve days. Do you really think I know who I am?”

Dean shrugged simply. “You’re Cas.”

Cas snorted and rolled his eyes, but he humored Dean and took a second look at the pile of clothing beside him. Cas didn’t offer anything else, so Dean patted his knee roughly and stood, gesturing to a small, dim little alcove with mirrored doors.

“I got some stuff I gotta grab quickly. But just try on a shirt and pants so I know I got the sizes right, then we’re outta here.”

Cas looked like he was going to protest, but Dean got up and walked away. After a minute, Dean heard a door click closed and when he looked back, the pile of clothing was gone.

While Cas was in there, Dean grabbed some first aid supplies and groceries. On his way back to the clothing department, he paused, something in ‘Shoes’ catching his eye.

He made sure he was only gone for a few minutes. When Cas stepped out of the change room, Dean was already back. Dean grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

Cas looked down at himself and then up at Dean, eyes guarded. Gruffly, he asked, “Does this fit how it’s supposed to?”

A thin grey t-shirt hugged Castiel’s shoulders and upper arms, draping down the rest of his torso and gathering on his hips. Faded black jeans sat snuggly around his hips and the tops of his thighs.

“Turn around,” Dean ordered, clearing his throat, trying to sound casual. Cas obeyed, and Dean caught Cas nervously staring at himself in the mirror, running a hand over his chest and tugging on the belt loops.

Dean could acknowledge that he felt an emotional bond with Castiel and the feelings he harboured for him were deep and freakishly intense. If he knew anything about the urges to hold his hand and kiss him, he knew that they came from a place of wanting to manifest those feelings of closeness and intimacy.

However, in the past Dean had wondered if the feelings he had for Cas were really anything other than just emotional. He’d often found himself wondered if there was any physical connection to Castiel at all. Physical attraction had not been high on the list of ways in which he’d been attracted to Castiel as an angel. Sure, he knew he was attractive, but the body was Jimmy’s, and Cas was an angel for fuck’s sake, and Dean had convinced himself that his pull to Cas had been emotional...

But when Dean found his mouth going dry at the way Castiel looked in his very own t-shirt and jeans, barefoot and messy-haired in the change room at Walmart, the physical attraction was undeniable. It hit him like a truck.

“Fits great,” Dean replied nonchalantly, though his heart was pounding.

“Can we leave now?”

Dean nodded. “Yup. Though I, uh, want you to try these on before we go.”

Castiel was handed a pair of running shoes. He looked down at them with genuine confusion.

Dean gestured to them flippantly and explained, “Sam’s been talking about jogging or running or whatever. He’s been feeling a lot better and, uh, wants to get back into it again, I guess.” Dean pressed a hand to his chest. “ _I_ do not want to freakin’ run with him, but I also don’t want him to go alone. It’s too dangerous. And I dunno how I feel about his freshly recovered ass frolicking around on his own.”

Despite being confused, Cas was slipping on the shoes anyway, scowling up at Dean.

“You want me to run with Sam?”

His tone of disbelief made Dean laugh a bit. “Yeah, I figured you two could have each other's backs, just in case. Sam says… he says it helps him clear his head, that it’s, uh, peaceful or whatever.”

Cas leaned on the change room wall, wiggling his foot into the other shoe, all the while staring at Dean, wary. “What about Kevin?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. Advanced placement Kevin? Do you really think Kevin wants to go _running_? And, I mean, even if he did, he’s our key to the decoding the tablets. If you think I’m letting him out of our sight then you’re crazy.”

Dean paused, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Besides, I think it might be good for you. To, uh, you know, feel peaceful and stuff.”

Castiel looked up at Dean sadly. They exchanged meaningful stares, both knowing that with the current state of heaven, the sentiment was near impossible.


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks passed at the bunker.

While there was no overt mad-dash to uncover information about the tablets, the sense of foreboding and desperation lingered under the surface of every research session they had. Especially as they came up with a heaping load of jack-squat every time.

Eventually Kevin managed to translate the angel tablet into proto-Elamite cuneiform, which meant fuck-all to Dean and Sam. The victory seemed sweeter when their resident ex-angel admitted to knowing the ancient tongue, but it quickly turned sour when Cas stared at the symbols and realised he didn’t recognize the script.

The silence was thick enough to choke on when they all simultaneously understood that Cas had lost the capability to understand different languages. When probed, Cas theorized that his human brain did not have the capacity to hold all the information that he’d accumulated over thousands of years.

As he got up from the table and left the room, none of them spoke; the shock and disappointment felt crushing.

Castiel didn’t leave his room for three days following that incident.

Dean tried to talk to him, but words fell on deaf ears. When conversations were predominantly one sided and Cas refused to get out of bed, Dean gave up trying to talk and focused on, at the very least, making sure he ate and drank. He had to force him to change and shower.

Dean felt trapped, and not just because none of them had left the bunker for over two weeks, but because nothing he did was helping. While Sam’s physical state got better, Cas’ emotional state got worse. Dean felt like he would never catch a break.

So it was surprising one day when Dean walked into the kitchen to see Sam and Cas sitting the table. Sam was doing up his running shoes and Cas was pushing food around on his plate.

“Whoa, what’s going on here?” Dean asked, walking past them and pouring coffee into his mug.

Sam threw a smile at Cas, who flashed him a tight one in return. Sam gestured over at him. “Cas is coming with me on a run.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up and he found himself genuinely grinning, happy for the first time in weeks. He felt like hugging them both, happy for some sense of normalcy returning to their group.

“Really?” he asked, staring at the side of Cas head. Dean did a bad job of hiding the pleasure in his tone. “That’s great news, Cas.”

Cas looked up and Dean’s heart sank as he noted dark circles under his eyes. A tight, small smile flashed across Cas’ lips again and he nodded.

“Yes,” he explained quietly. “Sam and I talked for a few hours last night and thought it might be best.”

Affection for his brother blossomed in his chest, thankful for whatever encouraging words Sam had said to Cas to get him to leave his room. He watched Cas and Sam exchange small smiles.

“Cas and I did a couple tests,” Sam explained. “We think maybe it’s just ancient languages are, uh, fading away. We’re all good for French, Arabic, Enochian, Italian, and Latin.”

“Portuguese, too,” Castiel added quietly.

“Right. Oh, and Greek.”

Cas lifted a wobbly piece of scrambled egg to his mouth, eating a bit with minimal enthusiasm. From the corner of his mouth, he muttered, “Hebrew.”

Sam nodded, pointing at Castiel as a gesture of support. “Yup. Hebrew too. And that’s just what we had time to test. I’m sure you still know tons more.”

Dean raised his cup in the air towards Cas. “See? You’ve still got it, Cas. You freaked out for nothing.”

Castiel shot him an annoyed look. “I used to be able to understand and speak over six thousand languages, Dean.”

Dean choked on his coffee.

“Well, who needs to know six thousand languages anyway? That’s excessive,” he coughed, wiping coffee off his chin.

Castiel rolled his eyes and went back to pushing bits of egg around his plate. Sam and Dean exchanged awkward looks. Sam redirected the conversation.

“Anyway, I figured I’ve been feeling great lately and wanted to try going for a run. Since you won’t go,” Sam shot Dean a peeved look, “I figured Cas might want to join me.”

Everyone in the room pretended like they didn’t know Dean had been trying to set this arrangement up for weeks.

“You’re staying around the bunker though, right?” Dean asked. “No taking off to God knows where?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mom.”

“And you’re gonna take your phone?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“You got an angel blade with you?”

Cas pushed away his plate abruptly with a scowl. Sam sighed at Dean, pursing his lips. “We’ll take an angel blade with us. It’ll look really cool strapped down beside my iPod.”

Dean crossed his ankles and leaned back against the counter, glaring at Sam with an unimpressed narrow of his eyes. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“We’ll be fine, Dean,” Castiel finally piped up. “Sam and I are both capable of putting one foot in front of the other without getting ourselves killed.”

“All right,” Dean muttered into his mug. “Just checking.”

As Sam got to his feet and Cas began to follow, Dean took a moment to appreciate Castiel’s legs in running pants.

“Half-hour max, you guys!” he called after them. “And you stick to the roads in case I have to find you!”

With Castiel unable to read Elamite, they really had no other choice but to enlist Crowley’s help.

Dean hated the idea, but what choice did they have? The fucker probably knew how to read the tablet and they needed answers. Castiel couldn’t read the text, no matter how many late nights he spent staring at the tablet. Dean saw that it was eating at him, so when Castiel suggested using the demon for his knowledge, Dean didn’t have it in him to say no.

That’s how Dean, Kevin, Sam, and Castiel ended up standing in front of Crowley, Kevin’s scribbles in hand. Crowley looked from one man to another, looking bored.

“Hello, boys,” he drawled, “I’ve missed you.”

“We need your help,” Castiel asserted quietly, holding up one of the sheets of paper in front of Crowley’s face. “What does this say? Can you read it?”

“Of course I can read it, what kind of half-cocked dimwit do you think I am? I’m the King of Hell, I can read four thousand languages.” Crowley’s lip curled. “But in what universe do you believe I’d ever help you? Especially since you’ve had me rotting in this disgusting little room for _weeks_ , chained and… and _bored_?”

Sam stepped forward with an angel blade held loosely in his fist, swinging it back and forth tauntingly. “Do you know how to read it or not?”

“Yes, and also, bite me, moose.”

Dean stepped forward and slammed his hand down on the table, not fazing Crowley one bit. The demon’s lips twitched up in the corner, even when Dean raised an angel blade to his throat and dug it into his skin.

“You’re going to tell us exactly what’s written on these fucking pieces of paper, Crowley, or so help me God, I will cut and carve into you until I can fit every tiny piece of your corpse into the cracks of these walls.”

“Dean.” Cas stepped forward, wrapping his hand around Dean’s arm, pulling him back gently. “No.”

Dean stepped back, allowing himself to be calmed by Cas’s other hand as it rested on his back.

Though he was immediately _not_ calm again when Castiel turned his gaze on Crowley and said, “Let’s make a deal.”

Sam and Dean both had visible and audible reactions, while Crowley grinned and leaned forward, the chained collar around his check rattling against his chair.

“There we go now, Castiel. You’re speaking my language.” Crowley looked down at his chains. “I want freedom.”

Dean made a gesture of protest, sweeping the blade in the air, shaking his head. “No way. Next suggestion.”

“Then no deal, you git,” Crowley drawled, amusement disappearing from his face. His lip curled as he glared at the boys. “I get my freedom, you get translations.”

Dean’s lip curled right back. “I would rather set myself on fire than let you walk free.”

Crowley allowed himself to chuckle darkly. With mirth, he replied, “If you would rather light yourself on fire, I might take _that_ in exchange for translations.”

Before Dean could reply, Cas said darkly, “Fuck you, Crowley.”

Everyone turned in surprise to look at Cas after he spat those choice words, his eyes narrowed.

Following a noise of disbelief, Crowley burst out into laughter.

Castiel’s face didn't change, but Dean noticed his collarbone and neck turn patchy and red over the collar of his t-shirt.

Crowley struggled to speak through his giggles. “Kitty’s got claws.”

“Shut up!” Dean barked, voice dripping in anger.

Blatantly ignoring Dean, Crowley pulled himself together, grinning at Cas. “Look at you, Castiel. So emotional, so human. It’s _dizzying_ to watch.” The chains around Crowley’s wrist rattled as he gestured to his head, making a swirling motion with his finger. “Oh, the gong show in that messy, whirlwind of a mind of yours. I can see it writhing inside of you; the pain, the anger, the guilt, the sadness. You are a basket case, love. I do not envy you.”

This time when Dean leaned across the table and backhanded Crowley, no one pulled him back or protested. Dean’s aching hand wrapped around Crowley’s throat and yanked him forward so that their faces were inches away from each other.

With eyes on fire, Dean spat words like poison at Crowley; “Either you tell us _now_ what this says or I take my time finding out what it’ll take for you to squeal. I have all day, it would be my pleasure--”

“We have blood,” Sam interrupted, his voice level and calm. “My blood.”

Both Dean and Crowley turned to Sam. Dean shot his brother a look of disbelief. With a violent gesture, Dean yanked his hand away from Crowley’s throat and rounded on Sam.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asked, his features twisted in confusion. Kevin and Cas exchanged similar looks.

Sam stepped around Dean and approached Crowley, leaning down and whispering in his ear.

Dean, Cas and Kevin exchanged looks, then turned to watch Crowley stare up at Sam, eyes unreadable.

“Fine,” Crowley agreed, his voice quiet and unsure. Sam nodded while the others stared dumbly. When Sam strode out of the room, Dean, Cas, and Kevin followed.

Catching up to Sam, Kevin grabbed his arm and asked in a hushed voice, “What are you doing? _Blood_? Why are you giving him your blood?”

Dean joined in, whispering angrily, “Why does he want your blood, Sam?”

Sam turned around and peered back behind them, checking to see if they were far enough away from the door and out of earshot.

“I’m not giving him my blood, I’m threatening him with it.”

Castiel frowned. “I don’t understand. Why should he fear your blood?”

Sam smiled slightly. “In the church, when I was injecting him with blood for the trial, he was starting to turn human. He got really emotional, like, he was overwhelmed. He was falling apart, guys. He was a mess.”

“Right,” Dean murmured, a light bulb going off, “it’ll drive him crazy.”

Sam nodded excitedly, tucking hair behind his ear. “Inject him with blood, turn off the lights, and leave him to sit with his emotions.”

Castiel nodded slowly.

“It’s Crowley’s version of Hell.”

The boys returned to the dungeon, Sam leading the way with a syringe filled with blood. A small dribble of crimson ran down his arm from the needle mark. Crowley eyed the rivulet of blood with cautious eyes.

“Talk,” Sam said, taking a paper from Cas and holding it in front of Crowley. “What does this say?”

Crowley glared at Sam, then swiveled his eyes to land on the sole two symbols on the page.

“ _Fallen angels,_ ” Crowley sneered.

The boys exchanged pleased looks. Kevin then came forward, taking Sam’s place. He held up another paper, this one filled with symbols from corner to corner.

Crowley fixed the boys with a look of rage. It was practically seething from his mouth.

When the silence was too long, Sam picked up the syringe and rounded the table. As he raised it, Crowley struggled in his chair and exclaimed in a panic, “All right! I’ll translate it. Get away from me with that thing!”

Sam set the syringe on the table, stepped back and nodded at Kevin, who moved the paper closer to Crowley’s face.

Through clenched teeth, Crowley read the script, snarling.

“It’s a series of steps,” he explained, “Gather a Cupid’s bow, the heart of a nephilim, and the grace of an angel. _To God’s Earth all of Heaven’s angels will fall, grace to flesh, wings remaining in paradise. Angels shall walk on earth for eternity. Heaven’s hallways will darken and remain empty forever.”_

“Forever?” Dean asked, shocked. Beside him, Cas leaned heavily against the wall, breath coming out shallow.

“Forever,” Crowley replied curtly. “That’s what it says.”

“Read it again!” Dean yelled, stepping forward and snatching the paper from Kevin. Dean slammed it down onto the table in front of the demon, pointing at the symbols on the page. “Make sure!”

“I’m sure!” Crowley yelled back, spit flying.

Dean turned to look at Cas, whose face was contorted into a mask of anguish.

In two strides, Dean pushed past Kevin and snatched the syringe up off the table. Ignoring Sam and Kevin’s protests, Dean swung the syringe back and sunk it into Crowley’s neck, pumping Sam’s blood into the demon’s blood stream.

“Dean, what the hell?!” Sam exclaimed, staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean leaned in close to Crowley’s shocked face, eyes ablaze. “You’re a _liar._ ”

There was an explosion of commotion as Sam all but dragged Dean away from Crowley, Kevin hurriedly collected the sheets of paper from the table, and Cas swept out of the room.

When the lights went out, Crowley struggled in his chair and screamed twisted profanities after the boys. His muffled pleas and begging were audible through the dungeon door as Kevin shut it behind them.

Dean didn’t care that Sam was angry at him. He didn’t care that Kevin and Sam were in Sam’s room discussing him in upset whispers. Dean was too busy stalking around the bunker, looking for Cas. When he was nowhere to be found inside, Dean checked the next place he thought Cas would be.

The air outside was crisp as it rushed into the bunker through the door and hit Dean’s warm face sharply. Stepping out, he closed the door behind him and walked up the stairs. He found Cas sitting on the grass beside the steps, not caring that the ground was wet and there would probably be mud on the back of his new jeans when he got up. Dean sat down beside him, not caring either.

He wasn’t surprised to see tears drying on Cas’ face and down his neck. The collar of his t-shirt was dark and damp in patches. He wasn’t crying anymore, though his lashes were still clumped and his eyes were wet and red.

Cas didn’t make a sound or acknowledge Dean. He just stared into the forest across the street and pursed his lips, his chin crumpling up.

“Crowley’s lying, Cas. He has to be.”

Cas didn’t respond at first. Dean saw his throat working and recognized the feeling of wanting to speak but being unsure if any words would even come out.

Eventually Castiel spoke, his voice hoarse. “He’s not.”

“Well,” Dean tried again, “we’ll find another way.”

Cas turned his face to look at Dean, his under-eyes sunken and crows feet suddenly looking very deep. “There is no other way, Dean. The tablet is prophecy.”

“Cas,” Dean laughed softly, “the apocalypse was prophecy. The breaking of the seals was prophecy. I was supposed to be Michael's meatsuit, remember? _Fuck_ prophecy.”

Cas bowed his head and rested his elbows on his knees. His fingers buried themselves in his hair. His voice heavy, Castiel rasped, “I’ve ruined everything.”

The words sounded like they carried the weight of the world, which they very well may have. Dean stared out into the dark forestry, his own eyes starting to burn.

Cas went on, words sounding like they were pulled from the depths of his soul, “I failed _again_. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, I always fail. I always try to help, to fix things, and yet I always manage to taint everything I touch.”

“You were trying to help. You did your best, Cas,” Dean responded gently. He ignored the nagging feeling in his chest that tried to remind him how poorly he’d treated Cas when Sam was going through the trials. He was reminded of times when Cas had offered to help and ended up being on the receiving end of Dean’s angry, sharp remarks.

Dean swallowed hard, adding, “You were tricked. You were promised something and then you were tricked. There was nothing else you could have done.”

Thin fingers tangled further in Castiel’s hair, his fingers digging into the back of his head as he replied bitterly, “There is always something that I could have done.”

Maybe it was because Dean was hearing thoughts that were all too familiar come out of Castiel’s mouth and it resonated with him, or maybe it was just because Cas looked so broken in the moonlight, but Dean leaned over and slid an arm around Castiel’s slumped shoulders. He scooted closer and when Cas looked up, Dean pressed his forehead to Cas’ temple.

He hadn’t known if the touch was welcome at first because Castiel stiffened and didn’t move. Cas’ hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them. Dean almost pulled away, but then Cas’ hand came up to rest on Dean’s wrist.

“We’ll find another way, Cas. We always do,” Dean assured again, his voice barely above a whisper, the clouds formed by his breath dancing over Cas’ ear. He felt Castiel tremble and figured that he probably should have brought him a sweater.

“What if we don’t?” Cas breathed miserably. “I’ll be eternally responsible for the orphaning of every angel in existence.”

“Metatron will be responsible for that, Cas.”

“No, Dean, you just don’t understand. I really, truly ruined everything. I’m the one who did the trials, I’m the one who activated the spell.”

Castiel turned his head to face him and Dean glanced down at his lips. They were so close. Butterflies flapped in Dean’s stomach.

“It was my grace that completed the spell. Mine. You couldn’t ever understand what that feels like.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh a bit. Castiel looked angry, pulling back a bit, eyebrows furrowing together as he frowned. Dean finished his chuckling and then gazed at Cas earnestly.

“Cas,” he asked with a touch of amusement, “do you remember who broke the first seal of the apocalypse?”

Castiel stared at Dean for few moments, then slowly his brow unfurrowed. He nodded slowly. “So fuck prophecy?”

Dean nodded. “That’s right. Hell yes.”

Cas relaxed in his arms and leaned towards Dean, their legs bumping together. His blue eyes went back to staring across the street.

The flutter in Dean’s stomach returned when their faces were inches apart again. It would only require him to lean in a bit and press his lips to Cas’ skin. A small voice in his head yelled at him to just do it, to erase the space between them, but then Dean caved to the other voice that told him a gesture like that would just complicate things.

“I promise, Cas. We’ll find another way.”

“I’m sure we’ll try,” Castiel agreed quietly. He detangled himself from Dean’s arms and stood. He turned and held out two hands for Dean, palms upturned.

“Let’s go inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned in my initial chapter notes that I was going to point out any scenes or events that paralleled The Evil Dead movie. However, because this fic takes place during the beginning of season nine, there are also some parallels to scenes from SPN. As many of you probably saw, the Crowley bit was based on the scene from the beginning of season nine where they have him translate the tablet. Obviously, I had to twist some things and change the dialogue, but I definitely relied heavily on that scene during the writing of this chapter. I both love and hate writing Crowley; it's a challenge because he's very specific in the way he speaks, but if done right, the end result is such a pleasure. I hope I did him justice.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Please leave me a comment to let me know what you think. :)


	3. Chapter 3

After making his promise to Castiel to find another way to save the angels, Dean spent a few hours the next day in the library with Sam and Kevin. Sam and Kevin worked on the tablets while he combed through old texts to get any information on angels falling—literally anything at all, which was more than they had now.

Cas hadn’t left his room yet, which was concerning but not unexpected. He had gone in there after his talk with Dean, still looking broken up about what Crowley had said. Dean knew he should probably go attempt to get Cas to get out of bed, but…well, he’d do it later. He’d face that later when he had good news. When he’d found something to give Cas a little more hope than “we’ll figure something out” could provide.

But the search was short lived when he got a phone call from Irv, a hunter friend of Bobby’s. Demons were infiltrating the military. And judging from the security footage from crime scene that Irv emailed, Abbadon was behind it. Her vile grin that Dean hated passionately taunted him from the screenshot.

The fallen angels, once again, got put on the back burner.

Dean began by sweeping through the archives, box-by-box, file-by-file, searching for information on Abbadon and how to destroy her. He knew he should have gotten in the Impala and gone to investigate, but yet again, he felt the crushing anxiety of a world falling apart and feeling like no one in his small group was fit enough to deal with it yet.

Eventually though, after hours of exclusively reading small, scribbly handwriting from dusty handwritten logs and reports, Dean began to feel like his eyes were going crossed.

Instead, Dean worked his way through the artifact storage room, trying to find items or books that could help them. When they’d moved in, he and Sam had initially attempted to organize the damp, dark unit but gave up due to the sheer amount of crap that was piled onto cluttered shelves. He cursed the Men of Letters for immaculately indexing their literature and documents, but filing their artifact room like an afterthought. That being said, maybe there was something in there that could hint to something about Abbadon or at least point Dean in the right direction.

As hours ticked by and Dean moved from the front of the room and closer to the back, he grew increasingly frustrated. The room was disorganized, he wasn’t finding anything useful, and it was disgustingly dirty.

As he lost patience with finding nothing relevant, he took a break to clean. He rationalized that if it was more organized, then he could work more efficiently. He ignored the fact that he knew he was stalling on doing more reading with Sam and Kevin.

His cleaning break turned into a full-fledged overhaul of the room that took the entire day. He pulled boxes off shelves and dragged the metal shelving units around, trying to create some semblance of organization.

As he made his way to the back of the room, Dean grew tired. His muscles ached and he promised himself as soon as he moved the last shelf, he was going to stop for the day. To his annoyance, the farther shelving unit wasn’t so much a shelf as it was a pile of boxes on top of a heavy, faded leather chest.

After clearing off boxes and shoving them on shelves that he’d proudly managed to make room on, Dean turned to the chest and glared at it. Or rather, he surveyed the mouldy old carpet it sat on top of. After the whole day of organizing and cleaning, Dean felt personally victimized by the solid half-inch thick layer of dust on the carpet.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered. “I do not do mystery dust. Nope.”

Decidedly annoyed with the monumental task he’d accidentally started, Dean was determined to finish. He moved the chest with surprising difficulty, nearly throwing out his back as he tried to drag the ridiculously heavy object across the dry, stale carpet.

Eventually the chest clunked down onto the cement floor. Dean muttered some choice words at it and turned towards the carpet. Getting down on his knees, Dean began to roll the carpet up, cringing as it crunched and dust flew up from it, causing Dean’ to cough and hide his face in his arm.

Mystery dust. Gross.

As he finally managed to roll it up and push it aside, Dean wiped at his face and waved his hand in the air, trying to clear the clouds of dust away from his face. As the particles cleared and swirled back down to the ground, Dean squinted down at the floor, noticing some odd lines carved into it.

To Dean’s surprise, he realised that there weren’t carvings on the floor, but instead deep grooves that separated cement from steel. Dean ran his fingers over the seams in the floor, noticing with surprise that they marked a doorway.

“What the hell…?” he muttered, running his hands over the hatch. Dean stared at it, fingers hovering over the handle at the base near his knee. After a lifetime of saving people and hunting things, he knew this was suspicious.

Dean looked over his shoulder, briefly wondering if he should get Sam, but he looked back down at the hatch and caved to curiosity. This was the bunker, how dangerous could it be?

Grabbing the handle with both hands, Dean lifted the door and peered down into darkness. Using the limited lighting from the storage room, Dean peered down a wooden staircase that descended into what appeared to be another storage room. He could dimly see more steel shelving on either side of the steps.

He groaned. Great, another storage room he’d have to rummage through.

Despite his apprehension, Dean retrieved a flashlight from the front of the room and returned to the hatch. As he lowered himself into it, he noted sigils carved into the underside of the hatch door.

He stepped down nervously to test the integrity of the first wooden step. When he was satisfied he wasn’t going to go careening through the boards, Dean slowly moved down the stairs, clicking on his flashlight and shining it through the room.

Dean’s face twisted into an expression of horror as he slowly walked past the storage units, his stomach turning at the sight of some of the items on the shelves. Displayed under layers of dust were jars with all manner of pickled horrors and dead things floating in embalming fluid, like out of a horror movie. The head of a molted, blistered monster stared at him through a cloudy green jar, its features twisted in terror. There were glass boxes lined in metal bars, encasing ominous looking dolls and blood splattered magical vases.

Against a wall at the end of a cobweb entrapped aisle was a caged enclosure with all manner of twisted looking weapons; swords with handles wrapped in barbed wire and whips with spikes protruding from the ends.

Dean continued through the room slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The room reeked of bad mojo but for some reason he continued forward, staring around in sick fascination.

Boxes labeled ‘DARK MAGIC, DO NOT TOUCH’ littered the floor at the base of many of the shelves beside malicious looking chests and curse boxes wrapped in chains. Dean passed a tall, black steel storage unit with about five different types of locks, some etched in runes and sigils, others plain but made of heavy steel.

Dean wrapped an arm around himself, shuddering as the room grew colder the deeper in he went. The cobwebs grew thicker and the shelving stopped at the back of the room.

Dean noticed a faded black pattern on the ceiling. He shone the flashlight on the strange cloudy pattern, following it further into the room and finally down on the back wall. What Dean saw nearly made him drop his flashlight.

He realised the black pattern on the ceiling were scorch marks. He lowered the flashlight and turned the dial on it, widening the girth of the light’s range. In the middle of the burnt wall was the clean outline of a cross, as if someone had aimed a flamethrower at a crucifix. At the bottom and on the arms of the cross-shaped imprint were dark red and brown splatters and drips down the wall; someone had been nailed to the wall and then burnt alive, he realised, his stomach turning.

Dean walked forward on unsteady legs and raised a hand to the wall, reaching out to press his hand against the cool cement.

Suddenly Dean tripped, his flashlight sliding across the floor and turning back on him. He groaned, rubbing his knee and raising a hand to block the blinding light.

“Fuck!” he barked, looking down at whatever had tripped him. With a twinge of annoyance, he realised he’d tripped on a stupid burlap bag. From within it had spilled an old, worn looking leather bound book and a scatter of scrolls.

“Great,” he muttered, getting to his feet and picking up his flashlight. Turning back to the unnerving sight scorched into the back wall of the storage room, Dean shuddered.

When he left to get Sam, Cas, and Kevin, Dean stepped over the book and watched his step the whole way back to the hatch door. If he smelled burning, he tried to convince himself he was imagining it.

As he disappeared through the doorway, the ancient book left lying on the ground flipped open, its heavy cover slamming down on cement with a thud.

“... it’s so friggin’ creepy, you guys have to see this,” Dean explained as he led Sam and Cas through the newly discovered room, flapping away at hanging cobwebs and shuddering.

Sam stared around in sick fascination, his eyes wide but brows furrowed. “Why would this even be here?”

Cas picked up a dusty jar, staring through narrowed eyes at the pickled and mangled creature claw floating inside of it. “I imagine the Men of Letters wouldn’t want to store the more unsavory items with the rest of their collection.”

“Kinda wish they’d thought of this place when they were deciding where to store the Wicked Witch of the West,” Dean muttered disapprovingly.

A chain dangled from beside an old grey lightbulb, and Sam gave it an experimental tug, exhaling through his nose in annoyance when the room remained dark.

The three men slowly moved through the room, inspecting the shelves and brushing cobwebs from their paths. Sam paused at an old rickety wooden unit, and frowned at a dark mahogany chest sitting on one of the shelves. He reached out to brush dust away from the heavy padlock that bolted it shut. He stopped himself though, yanking his hand back, eyes darting over a label on the edge of the shelf; ‘Cursed, do not open.’

“Cas, I think you're right. I think this might be where the Men of Letters stored their dark magic. Like, the really dark stuff,” Sam speculated, visibly shuddering and putting some space between himself and the chest. “It’d be too dangerous to just keep them with the other stuff.”

“They went through the trouble of hiding the entrance under a steel hatch, so I’d say so,” Dean pointed out. “Watch your step, by the way. There’s stuff all over the floor. I nearly broke my neck tripping over some stupid bag.”

“This room is heavily warded,” Cas pitched in, dragging his light over the edges of the room where the top of the wall met the ceiling. Sam and Dean did the same.

Cas was right. All along the trim of the room were inscriptions and sigils from visibly different languages carved intricately into the walls. Some of the inscriptions were neat and precise, though as they pulled their flashlights back towards the end of the room, the etching became messy and panicked, looking like they had been carved into the cement in a hurry.

“That’s some heavy warding,” Dean breathed, “who do you think they were trying to keep out?”

“Or keep in,” Sam added gravely. The men all exchanged looks, unsettled.

Dean led Sam and Castiel deeper into the room, towards the back. Their footsteps were loud in the heavy silence, boots crunching over dust and dirt.

Castiel followed, eyeing the series of artifacts with a mixture of curiosity and distrust.

With every aisle of shelving they passed, he felt goosebumps tingling on his arms and hair raise on the back of his neck. Castiel tried to ignore the swelling of apprehension in his chest. It was human and stupid, he thought, but couldn’t stop it. The cool, damp air in the room made him feel uneasy, an unexplainable sense of dread settling in his stomach. At his side, his fingers and wrist curled back on instinct, waiting for an angel blade to slide down into his palm that would never come.

Castiel shoved a hand in his pocket, craving warmth as the temperature dropped and his flashlight flickered.

“This is what I called you here for,” Dean went on, pointing his flashlight at the furthest wall in the room past the last of the shelves. “It looks like there was a fire.”

“More like death by fire,” Sam corrected, shaking his head and staring at the cross-shaped space in the middle of the blackened wall. Castiel followed the burgundy splatters and drips with his flashlight, a lump settling in his throat.

“Someone was crucified here.” Castiel's words were disconcerting in the silence.

Dean and Sam approached the chilling imprint. Castiel stepped forward to follow them, but tripped and stumbled, catching himself on a rickety shelf. His flashlight slipped in his hand, but he caught it, the torchlight pointing down at the ground, revealing an open book and a scattering of scrolls across the grungy cement floor.

“Careful,” Dean barked, as he and Sam turned to follow the noise, “I told you I nearly tripped on that thing earlier.”

Dean turned to the burn marks and muttered something to Sam, who spoke back, though Castiel’s attention shifted.

Carefully, he lowered himself to his knees and reached out slowly to the book opened on the floor. The pages--yellowed and dry, flecked with brown and red--fluttered slightly. Castiel’s fingers pressed down on the pages and dragged against the rough texture of the page, feeling the dotted texture of dried blood. Enochian words were deeply engraved into the page, dug into the parchment like someone had carved them there hurriedly.

Sam and Dean’s voices faded away.

Rough whispers from an unfamiliar voice echoed in his head. He didn’t know where the whispering came from or who it was coming from, but Castiel suddenly felt light-headed and dizzy.

Vaguely, he looked up to ask the Winchesters if they’d heard the whispering too, but the boys were still distracted, gesturing to the scorch marks on the wall, their words silent though their mouths moved all the same.

Castiel’s breathing grew shallow and his movements slowed as his fingers curled around the edges of the ancient book. He brought it closer to his face. Vaguely, he felt himself set his flashlight on the shelving beside him so that he could see the contents of the book more clearly.

Blood, the text was written in blood. Flakes of it came off on Castiel’s fingertips as he ran his hand over the page again, softly.

The scent of warm cologne and leather filled his nostrils as Dean seemed to crouch behind him and rest a hand on his shoulder, his breath hot against Castiel’s ear. Castiel’s eyes shut for a moment, inhaling the intoxicating scent, feeling drunk on it. The husky sound of Dean’s voice filled Cas with a warmth he’d dearly missed since he entered this dark, unsettling space.

“Read it,” Dean whispered, his lips brushing Castiel’s ear.

He watched his own finger slowly find the first word on the page and his mouth open as he read the words aloud, the breathy sounds echoing in the silence of the room. His words were hardly louder than a whisper, than a breath...

“Olani argedco oiad plapli ol mfrlfn… ofecvfa ol nata ol asiagiar mfrlfn… od pon oiad irpoil pe oadriax… od donasdogamatas stogol…”

As he slowly read the words on the page, his fingers began to tingle and the sensation crept up his wrist, coiling around his arms and slithering around his neck. Dean, still perched behind him, slipped a hand over his shoulder, then down his chest. He pulling him close, his face pressed against the side of Castiel’s head, his lips moving quickly, repeating the Enochian fluently into his ear in tandem.

“Read it,” Dean whispered again, his breathing fast, “all of it.”

Castiel’s whole body thrummed with a dull pulsing, his skin tingling, and he felt himself swaying slightly, intoxicated. He was at the end of the page (“...iolci loncho tzets nanaeel ol nata olani gemeganza...”), almost finished (“...aziagiar oiad mfrlfm od ol niis iadpil nanta gememe ganza noasmiin...”), he had one line left--

His face stung sharply and Castiel dropped the book.

Sam and Dean stood in front of him, Dean lowering a flat hand to his side.

Castiel winced, blinded by two flashlights shone directly in his eyes. He raised a hand to block the light and exhaled, unnerved to find himself panting. Falling back down onto his butt, Cas raised a trembling hand to his face, rubbing his jaw where Dean had slapped him. His chest burned and heaved. His lungs burned like he’d run a marathon.

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean snapped, waving his hands in the air, his eyes wild. “What the fuck possessed you to read from that thing? What part of ‘evil, cursed artifact room’ did you not understand?”

Castiel blinked at him, confused. The fog in his brain was lifting slowly.

“You told me to read it,” he retorted.

“What?” Dean asked, confused and visibly annoyed, “No, I didn’t! Why would I ever ask you to do that? Jesus, Cas. Who even knows what you just read?”

Castiel, now also annoyed and on edge, got to his feet, legs trembling. “Yes, you did. You were right behind me. Besides, I-I didn’t finish the page, I don’t think I...”

Sam stepped forward, his eyes alight with concern. Picking up Cas’ abandoned flashlight from a shelf and passing it back to him, Sam rested a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Are you all right, Cas? You’re shaking.”

“You…” Cas looked around but saw nothing in the darkness except for shadows twisting behind Dean and Sam, shapes manipulated by the glow from their flashlights. “You didn’t hear the voices?”

“Voices?” Sam and Dean exchanged worried looks.

“Yes!” Castiel snapped, irritated. They were looking at him like he was going mad and frustration bubbled in Castiel’s chest. “The whispers from before!”

When they stared at him blankly, Castiel ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

Sam patted him on the shoulder and then let the hand drop to his side, “It’s all right, Cas. Maybe you were just spooked. Your brain can come up with all kind of tricks when it’s this dark like this. It’s creepy.”

Dean still looked torn between concern and skepticism. He stared at Castiel through narrowed eyes. “You heard whispers, then not-me told you to read from the book? Am I getting this right?”

Castiel felt the bubbling of frustration in his chest again, picking up on the critical tone in Dean’s voice. He was tempted to ask Dean if this was his first day hunting, if these kind of signs and red flags weren’t indicative of the supernatural, but Castiel shut his mouth.

A small part of him was convinced that Sam was right; maybe his weak, easy influenced human brain had been adversely affected by the “dark” and “creepy” room. He knew how easily the human brain could create things to be frightened of and was easily manipulated by emotion. Admittedly, he had been unnerved when he’d walked into the space, bothered by the dark corners he couldn’t see the depths of, unsettled by the gruesome contents of the storage unit, and apprehensive of the silence…

“You’re probably right, Sam,” Castiel resigned, pushing hair from his face, wiping a bead of sweat from his hairline. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Perhaps I was just… spooked.”

He purposely didn’t mention how real Dean had felt, how real his lips had felt against his ear, and how intoxicating his hot breath had been as it coiled over his skin. The hand down his chest had felt so real Castiel could still feel the nails digging into his skin.

“I want to go,” Cas rasped at them.

“Yeah, of course,” Sam said in his usual understanding, kind way. “Take a breather, we’ll finish up down here and then be right up.”

Cas nodded thankfully, his hands visibly shaking still, his usually tanned face pale and sweaty.

There was no fucking way Cas had just been ‘spooked’, Dean thought, watching Cas as he turned on his heel and left the room, the bobbing of his flashlight disappearing up through the hatch.

When they were sure he was gone, Sam and Dean turned to look at each other.

“What the fuck?” Dean said, and Sam nodded in agreement.

“What the hell was he talking about?” Sam whispered to his brother, his face twisted into a puzzled, worried expression. “You were ‘behind him’? You ‘told him’ to read the book?”

The boys turned their flashlights towards the ground, both staring at the horrific looking script, noting the ancient splashes of blood and gruesome illustrations on the accompanying page. Adjacent to the etched-in words were inked images of rotted, twisted demons contorted as they pulled themselves out of the earth, their long, coiled claws ripping wings from angels, whose faces were misshapen with terror.

Sam’s jaw clenched. “Something isn’t right.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean crouched down to pick up the book, staring at it with disdain. As he rose, Dean turned the book to his brother. “Hold on… do these markings or letters look familiar to you?”

Sam took the book in his hand, the spine flat against his palm. After just a second of his eyes sweeping page, his eyebrows shot up. “Dean, it’s in Enochian.”

“Well, thank fuck for that,” Dean muttered, taking the book back. “At least that part is easy; we’ll get Kevin to crack this code for us, no problem.”

Sam frowned, eyes darting from the book to his brother, his brow furrowing. “You don’t think we could just ask Cas? I mean, we know he could tell us what it says in like, two seconds.”

“No way,” Dean said abruptly, snapping the book closed and shoving it under his arm. “I don’t want him anywhere near this thing. Did you see what it did to him?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed, following Dean as he led the way out of the room.

“He was sitting there whispering like a crazy person. Like, breathing all heavy, and sweating and shaking. I’m not risking putting him in that weird trance again. We don’t know if the book has a special effect on him, ‘cause, y’know, the ex-angel thing,” Dean ranted angrily. “It freaked me out, Sam.”

Sam snorted. “You didn’t have to slap him that hard though.”

The two men climbed out of the hatch. Dean slammed it closed behind him, shooting the door a look of contempt. He and Sam pushed boxes aside to clear their path.

“Yeah, well, I was really freaked out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who watched The Evil Dead (2013)... remember the very first scene in the basement? ;)
> 
> The concept of someone reading from an 'evil book' and releasing a spirit is nothing new to the horror genre, but I definitely relied heavily on the Necronomicon to write this fic in general, not just this chapter. Google 'Evil Dead book' if you want a visual. It's spooooooky!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like I said in the tags, there are spoilers for the movie 'The Witch' in this chapter. Proceed with caution!

_Brother, help us._

_Where are you, Castiel? Please… come to us._

_Where am I? Lord, please. Someone help me. Where am I?_

_… I’ve tried to go home, but I… I don’t know how. How do I go home?_

_This is Castiel’s fault. This is all his fault._

_I don’t know where I am. If anyone can hear this, send assistance._

_My wings… They have been ripped from me. The pain… it is excruciating._

_Brothers and sisters, how did this happen? What is this body? What is this vessel?_

_I can feel my grace… it is deep inside the flesh of this body, but I can’t reach it…_

_Castiel, help us. Help us. We need you._

_We love you, Castiel. Help us._

The voices had been echoing in Castiel’s mind for hours.

At times the whispers were both caressing and comforting, while other times they left agonising scratches across his conscience, leaving his soul bleeding and aching.

The sound of his brothers and sisters crying out for help, weeping and screaming, had began as he awoke from a short-lived slumber. His eyes had snapped open from a dream to find himself receiving celestial signals, listening to panicked chatter of angel radio.

He couldn’t explain why or how it was happening. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t feel a shred of grace in him, not in his mind or soul, not in his flesh. There wasn’t a drop in him. There was no reason how this could be and yet there the voices were. They weren’t as clear as they’d been when he was angel—they definitely weren’t loud enough or strong enough; the whispers sounded like they were moving through static or trying to reach him from under water.

He knew he should tell Sam and Dean, but Dean was hesitant to talk about anything to do with angels, and Castiel didn’t want to upset him, especially following the events in the dark magic artifact room.

It was understood that Dean was angry at him for reading from that random book in the basement. He also didn’t believe Castiel when he said he didn’t remember what he’d read. It was true though. The words that had poured from his mouth as he read from those pages were a faded memory, the sounds distorted and imagines blurred in his recollection. All he knew was that he had been so close to finishing the page, that the closer to the end he’d gotten, the closer Dean had pulled him flush against his body… But he’d been left empty, longing to finish the page, read the last few words.

For the third time that night, the angels went silent. Castiel rolled over in his bed, pulling the blankets closer to his chest, a horrible emptiness and longing making his stomach twist and hurt.

He missed the voices as soon as they were gone. He missed them so much.

Dean would be angry. Sam and Kevin would be concerned. He could already hear them; _You’re not an angel anymore, Cas. Why the hell would they be speaking to you?_

They’d want to figure out why he was hearing the angels. Maybe they wouldn’t believe that the voices were angels at all. They would want to put a stop to it. Especially Dean, whose distrust and contempt of Castiel’s brothers and sisters had only grown deeper and darker as the years passed.

He recalled his memory of Dean standing in the too-bright, too-open aisle at Walmart, holding him close, hands around his wrists, his eyes roiling with concern, with pity; _“Castiel, if you try to go to them, they will kill you.”_

A small part of Castiel’s conscience agreed with Dean. A strange little part of him that sounded just like Dean asked why the angels would ever want his help, after everything he’d done… It didn’t make any sense.

Dean would never believe that the angels wanted Castiel back, that they longed for him and needed his help. He’d say it was a trap. He’d say that the angels couldn’t be trusted. He thought they all wanted to kill him, but Dean didn’t know them like Castiel did. He didn’t know their power of love, of forgiveness...

Castiel rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Even with the voices gone from his mind for now, he could still feel the quaking in his chest as they screamed, begging for help, pleading for home. He would do anything to save them, to bring them back to Heaven, even if he had to stay behind on earth forever. Even if he had to die.

He would do anything.

“Any luck with the translations?”

Dean slid a cup of coffee in front of Kevin, who took it eagerly, his gulps audible even over the sound of music drifting from the record player.

“Nah,” Kevin said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He vaguely gestured at the forgotten ancient text which Dean had dubbed “that creepy-ass book from the basement”. “That Enochian is older than the dialect in our references. It’s different than the versions we’ve used before.”

Dean blinked. “Soooo… what does that mean, Kevin?”

The younger man scowled up at Dean. He set his coffee down, careful not to set it on any of his notes.

“It means,” Kevin explained with a sigh, “that it’ll take me a bit longer to translate that page Cas read from. I just don’t know _when_ I’ll get to it.”

Dean slurped his coffee and jutted his finger at the old, dusty leatherbound book. “How about now? Now is a great time.”

Kevin stared at him, wide-eyed. “You want me to translate this now and also work on translating the tablets? Do I look like I have two heads and all the time in the world?”

“What’s going on in here? I can hear you two bickering from down the hallway,” Sam asked, striding into the map room, gnawing on a granola bar and scrolling through his phone.

Dean slid off the table where he was perched and into a chair, waving an annoyed hand at Kevin, who glared at him.

“Tablet boy doesn’t think the creepy-ass basement book is a priority.”

Kevin huffed and flapped his hand across the table, gesturing to the scattering of pages, empty potato chip bags, and the stone tablets sitting in front of him. “I’m kind of busy!”

Sam smiled with amusement as he dropped into a chair and went back to scrolling through his phone. “Don’t worry about the book, Kevin. Focus on the tablets.”

Kevin shot Dean a triumphant look while Dean stared at Sam with a severely unimpressed gaze.

“Uh, since when do we not care about the spooky Enochian mess that came out of Cas’ mouth and made him go all—” Dean did an impression of Cas, his eyes rolling back and his arms shaking.

Sam rolled his eyes and glanced at Kevin, whose eyes were wide.

“It didn’t happen like that,” he assured Kevin in a side whisper.

Dean scoffed, setting his coffee mug down on the table loudly. “What-the-fuck-ever, it sure seemed like it. It really—”

“— ‘freaked you out’, I know,” Sam finished for him.

“It wasn’t like him, Sam. Cas would know better than to just start reading from a random book we found in a cursed-object, black-magic, bad-mojo room. He’s not stupid. Something was off about the whole thing and you know it.”

“You have a point,” Kevin said. “But if you knew something is off about it, why’ve you been giving Cas the cold shoulder for like three days now? Every time he’s in the room, you act like a real jerk.”

Sam’s lips had a ghost of a smirk on them and Dean looked between them angrily, knowing Sam and Kevin had probably talked about this behind his and Cas’ back.

Regardless, he didn’t have a good explanation for his behavior other than he was just frustrated with another problem piled on his plate and Cas was an easy target.

“What? No, I haven’t,” Dean retorted, looking offended. “And even if I was, he acted like an idiot. What kind of hunter just picks up some evil-looking book like that and starts skimming through like it’s Reader’s Digest?”

“He’s having a really hard time, Dean,” Sam scolded gently, scowling at his brother. “I think he’s having a really difficult time adjusting to everything, and honestly, you haven’t been too helpful about it lately. You should ease up on him. You said it yourself, it wasn’t like him to do something stupid like that, so there’s gotta be a good explanation as to why. Regardless, I’m not too concerned about the book—”

“Not concerned?” Dean snapped. “How are you not concerned all of a sudden?”

“It’s been days,” Sam shrugged, “and he seems, well, fine.”

Dean’s eyes were hooded as he stared at Sam with displeasure, still unimpressed and unconvinced.

Sam leaned forward on the table, linking his hands together and staring at the offensive book. Gently, he turned to Dean and said, “I know you’re worried, but maybe it was nothing. You know languages, especially the older ones, have been slipping from his memory. He just doesn’t have the neural capability to retain all that information anymore. I mean, maybe he read something wrong, mispronounced a word, maybe nothing happened?

“He said he didn’t finish the page and I believe him. Besides,” Sam gestured to the ceiling with a swirl of his finger, “no hellfire, no brimstone and ash falling from the sky… y’know, maybe it was nothing?”

Dean pursed his lips at Sam and looked to the book again, his eyes darkening. Even though it lay there unopened and motionless, he glared at it like it had just pointed at him and laughed.

He stood up, gathering Kevin’s garbage and his empty mug.

Sam and Kevin’s eyes followed him when he didn’t reply.

Then, as he swept out of the room, Dean paused to gesture at Kevin, jutting his finger at him again. His tone was stern. “You spend some time on that book today, Kevin. I want answers by the end of the week.”

“It’s always ‘do this now, Kevin’!” Kevin barked after him. “No one ever says, ‘let’s take a break and have fun, Kevin’!”

“Shut up, Kevin,” Dean called back over his shoulder, disappearing through the doorway.

“Any news about Abbadon?” Sam called after him. He was met with radio silence. In the distance, there was the sound of the mug being too-aggressively tossed into the kitchen sink.

“He just ignored everything I just said, huh?” Sam asked, leaning back in his chair and raising his eyebrows.

“Yup,” Kevin muttered and nodded, tucking back in to work on the tablets.

He heard his brothers and sisters clearer when he was alone.

Castiel lay on his bed, head propped up by a few pillows, staring at the ceiling. He’d intended on retreating to his room to listen to the music Sam had programmed into the tiny music player for him. But he was anxious he might miss the chatter of his siblings if the earbuds were in, so he lay in silence, holding the little music player in his hand, rested on his stomach. Distractedly, he ran an earbud over his lips, watching a spider scuttle across the ceiling.

The angels hadn’t spoken to him since yesterday and he missed them terribly. He longed to hear them again. He irrationally hoped that if he was quiet enough, he could hear them in the distance. Inside his stomach, anxiety and sadness settled in, as he wondered if the last few times had been flukes, if maybe he’d never hear their voices ever again.

He was listening so hard for the sound of static and whispers that the sharp rapping on his open door almost made him jump.

Dean stood in the doorway, smirking.

“Those go in your ears, y’know, not your mouth,” he said mockingly, mimicking Castiel’s gesture, running an invisible earbud over his lips.

“I know that,” Castiel replied, pushing himself up quickly and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He glanced up at him, frowning. “What can I help you with, Dean?”

Dean walked into the room, looking around and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“You, uh... feel like watching a movie?”

The question made Castiel pause for a moment, eyes narrowing. Dean had been openly and decidedly annoyed and mocking with him over the past few days. Ever since he’d read from that strange book in the bunker’s dark magic artifact room, Dean only had curt words and eye rolls for him.

It had felt extremely isolating.

“A movie?” Castiel repeated back to Dean, unable to hide the disbelief from his voice. “You’re not still angry with me about that book?”

Dean laughed bitterly. His eyes flickered down to Castiel, his brows raised. “Oh no. I’m still pretty angry about it—”

Dean seemed to stop himself from saying something else. He exhaled through his nose and shrugged, pointing down to the spot on the bed beside Castiel, helping himself to the seating space. “But, uh, I figured there’s enough drama going on without me being pissed at you. Even if you deserve it.”

“I see,” Castiel murmured, wrapping the white earbud wires around the music player. That was disappointing. He’d hoped Dean would have forgiven him by now. Castiel didn’t know how else to explain to Dean the pull he’d felt to the book, without frightening him. Or worse, making him hate him if he revealed just how intoxicating his touch had been. Castiel swallowed hard, remembering the feeling of Dean’s hand slipping over his shoulders and down his chest.

Dean went on, his voice more upbeat. “It’s late, anyway, and Kevin’s been whining about being overworked. Sam’s better now and can actually stay up past nine o’clock, so I figured we’d put the doom and gloom on pause and just relax.”

“And a movie will help us relax?”

“Hell yes,” Dean nodded, smiling. With all the “doom and gloom”, a sincere smile from Dean was far and few between. The sight of one made Castiel’s stomach feel like there were butterflies flapping around inside. It was rather dizzying, actually—but a good dizzying. The smile was all teeth and crows feet, though Castiel’s favourite part of Dean’s smile was the little pointed incisors that made Dean look a little roguish. He didn’t know how a tooth had such personality, but he vaguely remembered rebuilding Dean and taking particular care to get that smile right. He hadn’t known why it was important at the time, but he was extraordinarily happy he had an eye for detail.

“I know it’s been rough being pent up. I figured we should make sure it doesn’t always completely suck,” Dean explained, then added out of the corner of his lips, “Also, if I had to hear Kevin complain about translating one more time today, I was going to shove him out the doors and let the demons and angels have at him.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say about the prophet,” Castiel pointed out, but he felt his own lips turn up into a smile. He noticed Dean glanced down at his lips and Castiel got to see those cheeky incisors again as Dean laughed a bit.

“I’m kind of an asshole sometimes,” Dean acknowledged, shrugging.

A little chuckle rumbled in Castiel’s throat, a mannerism he was new to, one that came fresh with humanity.

“Yes,” he agreed.

Dean shoved Castiel with his shoulder. “Hey, you’re not supposed to agree!”

“I apologize,” Castiel amended. “You’re not an asshole.”

Dean snorted, getting to his feet. “Nah, that doesn’t sound right either.”

He held out a hand to help Castiel up, which was strange, Castiel thought, since he didn’t need help getting up from bed. But he took the extended hand anyway, enjoying the warmth around his fingers.

Dean’s hand lingered, only letting go after a beat. He rubbed at the back of his neck and nodded towards the door. “Let’s do it.”

Castiel followed him out into the hallway, walking at his side.

Curiously, he asked, “What are we watching?”

As if Dean Winchester’s life didn’t have enough terror and dread, he picked out a movie called ‘The Witch’ to watch. Castiel didn’t think that sounded very relaxing.

“Cas, don’t complain about the horror movie,” Dean said as he dropped down onto the couch beside him, handing him a bottle of beer. “Yeah, I know we deal with guts and gore on a regular basis, but when we see it in person I don’t exactly get to put my feet up and watch with a beer and some popcorn, okay?”

Sam, lying on the floor with a pillow shoved under his head, laughed lightly. “It’s not that kind of movie anyway, Cas.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, nudging Castiel with his elbow. “This one is smart and creepy. It really makes you think at the end.”

Kevin smirked as he leaned back in a big armchair, resting his feet on a wooden coffee table in front of them. “That means Dean didn’t get it at first.”

“Shut up, Kevin,” Dean griped, his eyes narrowing. “Just because I didn’t get the ending the first time doesn’t mean the entire movie was lost on me. I mean, does anyone _really_ know if she was the witch the whole time—”

“Dude, spoilers!” Sam barked, sitting up abruptly, pointing at Castiel. “Cas hasn’t watched it yet!”

“ _Who_ is the witch the entire time?” Castiel asked, his brows furrowing as he looked between Sam, Kevin, and Dean.

“Uh,” Dean grunted, pointing the remote at the television, “just watch, Cas.”

The movie wasn’t frightening at all. Dean, Sam, and Castiel had faced more frightening creatures in person and Castiel thought the Puritan religious themes gave away the plot right from the beginning.

Obviously, the goat was the Devil. He pointed it out right away and got a chorus of groans and laughter from Sam, Kevin, and Dean.

“ _Dude,_ ” Dean chuckled, tilting his head back against the top of the couch.

Castiel looked over at him in the dark, frowning. “What’s the problem? It’s obvious.”

The pale blue light from the movie flickered over Dean’s face and eerie instrumental music played from the television, but Castiel felt an inexplicable swelling in his chest as Dean beamed at him and shook his head, chuckling quietly.

They were sitting very closely. They didn’t need to be sitting so closely, there was almost enough room for one more person on the couch. Perhaps not Sam, but if Kevin wanted to, he could have fit beside Castiel as well.

But he didn’t mind. This was preferable to the cold shoulder. The cold shoulder from Dean had been troubling him over the past few days. It wasn’t the first time in their friendship that he’d treated Castiel that way, and it most certainly hadn’t been the worst. But the seclusion in the bunker, the silence from the angels, and the sense of dread in his stomach following the reading of the book had Castiel feeling uncharacteristically lonely.

Besides, it always hurt when Dean was angry at him. He was pleased that for the time being, as they sat together on the couch, blanketed in the near darkness of the room, that Dean didn’t seem angry at him.

Castiel was also strangely buzzing from the way their knuckles were slotted together between their thighs, fingers gripped around their respective bottles of beer. Castiel’s was nearly full, but he didn’t want to raise it to his lips, in case Dean moved his hand away too and the excuse for their hands to brush against each other was taken from him.

As if reading his mind, Dean whispered just quietly enough for him to hear, “Uh, I guess we kinda forgot about these.”

Dean gestured to his beer bottle, which was also full.

Castiel watched him take a swig and was sad to lose the warmth on the back of his hand. Humming in agreement, he drank from his as well.

Beside him, Dean shifted, sliding down the couch a bit and resting his feet on the table. Ever so slightly, his torso was leaned towards Castiel, bringing his hand back so that their knuckles brushed again. Castiel dared look down at their hands and was slightly surprised to see Dean doing the same.

His heart began to beat faster as Dean’s one finger uncurled from around his beer and brushed over Castiel’s knuckles. Once... twice... it wasn’t an accident, three times.

Or perhaps it had been an accident because when Castiel’s finger uncurled as well, brushing against Dean’s hand in the same way, Dean jerked back, bringing the beer to his lips and drinking deeply. Castiel saw his other hand clench into a fist and when he lowered the bottle from his lips, Dean didn’t return his hand to the space between their legs.

Of course, Castiel thought unhappily—his vessel. He’d forgotten momentarily about his vessel—no, _his body_ —this permanent meat sack in the form of a male. He knew Dean would never pursue anything with a male vessel. How pesky that he was permanently stuck in one now. Pesky and utterly heartbreaking.

Their connection had only grown and expanded over time, often the source of great turmoil but also equally profound and wonderful. He loved Dean Winchester; perhaps, he always had.

He had originally loved him in the way God wanted him to, as a beautiful, purposeful creation. But in the past few years, he also loved him in ways no one had expected—not God, not the angels, not himself. He loved Dean for his stubbornness, his recklessness, his loyalty and bravery, and most recently, his vessel craved him lustfully and as a source of physical beauty. He craved his touch, his warmth, he felt what humans coined “chemistry”.

Though his body and human mind found itself dragging over Dean’s magnificent human body, there was still a wholesomeness and soulfulness to the attraction; even in Dean’s physical appearance, in his mannerisms and bodily habits, Castiel could find the soul he fell in love with. He was forgetting many things he used to know as an angel, but thankfully, he still remembered the way Dean’s soul looked as it shone around him unceasingly like a pale green aura, bright and burning. However, even if he lost the imagery, Castiel thought, it would be all right. Dean’s soul didn’t need to glow. His vibrant green eyes did the job just the same.

What was equally irritating about being trapped in a male vessel was that he knew Dean returned his feelings—he could see it, the fierce affection Dean had for him. He could feel it. It shone from green eyes flecked with gold; it was sometimes soft and fond, other times fierce and roiling, and even when Dean was furious with him for whatever reason, the emotions Dean held for him were always somehow present. Dean showed him how he felt about him in the ways he wanted to fiercely protect him or yell at him for making reckless decisions, for endangering himself. Every time Dean passionately reminded him that he was family, Castiel knew all too well he wasn’t family to him like Sam was family.

It was just unbearably heartbreaking that he was forever stuck in a vessel Dean wouldn’t want to love. Never in the four years that he had known Dean had he ever seen him engage in romantic or sexual interactions with another male. He hadn’t been stationed to watch Dean before the crusades through Hell, but he couldn’t imagine anything had been different.

He was jogged out of his train of thought when Dean’s hand came down on his leg, prodding him with his finger. Castiel looked down at Dean, watching his rapt face as it stared at the screen, eyes mesmerized.

“I love this line,” Dean whispered.

Castiel turned to watch the screen, though he was tempted to watch Dean’s face instead, tempted to drag his gaze over the soft contours of Dean’s features. They were so beautiful like this; smooth in the glow from the television, his lips full and outlined by soft warm lighting as they parted slightly, tongue swiping out to wet them.

A girl was centered on screen, cast in orange light, her cautious gaze just past the camera, face angled down.

An unnervingly deep, slow, temptation-filled voice whispered to her.

“ _Would thou like to live deliciously?_ ”

He actually felt Dean shudder beside him, and Castiel swallowed hard. The voice was spine-chilling in its languidness. He thought that if crossroads demons had voices like that, Hell would reach capacity frighteningly quick.

 _“I cannot write my name,”_ the girl on screen said meekly as a dark, gloved hand curled around her shoulder from the shadows.

There was a pause. _“I will guide thy hand.”_

The room was silent, not one of the four men making a sound as a gong sounded and the girl slowly walked into the forest, the black goat following her gleefully.

“I told you it was the goat,” Castiel whispered, tilting his head towards Dean but not tearing his eyes from the screen.

When the credits began to roll, Kevin scrambled to his feet to turn on the lights.

“Scared, Kevin?” Sam laughed.

“Shut up, Sam.”

When Kevin settled back down, Sam sat up and pushed at Castiel’s legs with his palm.

“So?” he asked with a friendly smile. “What did you think? I mean, even though you were spoiled.”

He felt himself shrug and look between Dean and Sam.

“It was obvious,” Castiel explained in a slow, thoughtful manner. “She was manipulated into becoming the witch. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Her family told her she was a witch from the beginning, and through their own self-indulgent and lustful actions—which contradicted their Puritan values—they forced her into her role. It’s obvious.”

“I told you!” Sam exclaimed excitedly, getting to his feet and tucking his pillow under his arm. “I mean, I didn’t use that many words, but I told you, Dean!”

Dean sat up, opening his arms at his brother, looking offended. “No freakin’ way, Samantha. She was a witch the entire time. She manipulated everyone around her!”

But Sam was already exiting the room, looking triumphant. Kevin grinned at Dean, who shot Castiel a peeved look.

“Thanks a lot, Cas. Now I’m down twenty bucks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?" and the other italicized quotes are straight from 'The Witch' (2015). I find the quote spine-chilling. I feel like Dean is a horror movie junkie and would think so too. xD
> 
> Leave me a comment and let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

“You excited for your first tattoo?” Dean asked cheekily, grinning at Castiel. The former angel sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, chewing his nails absentmindedly and watching the sights change out the window as the car took them into town.

“I’m… eager to be warded against demons, yes,” Cas admitted, tugging his fingers out of his mouth. He exchanged the fingernails for a chewed up straw, slurping on a soft drink Dean had bought him at lunch. “The vulnerability and fear that comes with being human is unsettling. You and Sam make it seem so easy.”

Dean laughed, despite Castiel’s somber confession. “Ding, ding, ding. Nailed it, Cas. Welcome to humanity; where we eat, sleep, shit, and pretend not to be scared of everything all the time.”

“It’s exhausting,” Castiel admitted, chewing on the straw in his drink.

“Nah... Well, yeah,” Dean admitted with a chuckle, “but you get used to it. Anyway, we’ll get you tatted up and then at least the angels and demons won’t be able to find you without some kicking and screaming.”

There was a pause.

“I’ve been thinking, Dean,” Castiel said quietly. When Dean glanced over, he saw Cas fiddling with the chewed up straw. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be warded against the angels.”

Dean accidentally pressed on the brakes, sending him and Cas jutting forward. A car behind them honked and Dean waved at the driver, apologizing.

After the hiccup, they proceeded forward, the Impala gathering speed. Dean’s hands twisted on the steering wheel.

“Why the hell would you think that’s a good idea?” Dean asked through his teeth, trying to sound calm but unable to push down the feeling of anger rising.

“What if they’re trying to find me?” Castiel asked, turning away from Dean to stare out of the window again.

Dean made an offended sound and sputtered, “Yeah, duh, Cas, that’s the whole idea behind the tattoo. We don’t _want_ them to find you.”

“What if they need me?” Cas snapped back suddenly.

Shocked, Dean’s head quickly turned to look at Cas, his face twisted into a mix of hurt and confusion.

“What if they…” Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, throwing one hand up in the air. It landed back on the wheel with a slap. “What if they... need you? Cas, even before you cast them all of them out of Heaven, you were hunted. How in the hell would this mess make them feel any different? How many times do we have to talk about this?”

Castiel wasn’t convinced. He shoved the straw back into the cup through the lid with a stuttered movement, the plastic making an awful creaking sound. Cas shoved the cup back into the cup holder with a snap.

“You don’t understand,” Castiel argued, his voice angry. Redness crept up his neck in a patchy flush. “Dean, I… I truly think they’ve forgiven me. I think they just want to go home. I can’t afford to get this warding if it means they won’t be able to find me.”

“Do you understand how fucking dangerous this is?” Dean yelled, the noise explosive in the small cabin. He had officially lost his patience. “Do you know how crazy you sound? What’s gotten into you?”

Castiel sat back in his seat, shoulders slumped. He stared out the windshield, eyes still narrowed, his lips turned down into a scowl.

Dean’s eyes tried to strike a balance between looking out at the road and over to Cas, his head shaking. Quieter, though his tone was still heavy with disbelief, Dean repeated pointedly, “What’s gotten into you?”

Castiel didn’t answer and it made Dean want to pull over and slap him. But two could play at this game, so Dean stared out the front window, driving towards the tattoo shop with determination. Cas was going to get that damn tattoo even if it meant Dean had to physically drag him inside and tie him down to do it.

Dean had intended to be silent, to deliver a fresh serving of cold shoulder, but irritation blossomed in his chest, twisting at his stomach. Frustration gnawed at his insides. He couldn’t remain quiet.

“First, you’re annoyed with me because it took me too long to get these tattoos on you,” Dean burst out, “and now you’re backing out of the angel warding? You were on board, Cas. I thought you understood how dangerous it is that we’re even out here, that you’re vulnerable and exposed to anything that wants to find you.”

To his credit, Castiel did look regretful. He opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find words to express whatever he was thinking. His fingers curled into fists in his lap.

“Dean, I know you want to protect me—”

‘Fuck, Castiel! Do you?” Dean exploded. “Because it doesn’t matter how hard I try, you always fucking fight me about it. What do I have to do to keep you safe? What do I have to say? Just tell me!”

Castiel opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by his body jutting back against the seat, thrown off balance when Dean pulled over aggressively.

Once the car was in park, Dean yanked the keys out of the ignition and twisted to face Cas, his jaw tight and eyes on fire.

His keys jingled loudly in the tense silence as Dean gestured at Cas with them.

“They. Will. Kill. You,” Dean articulated with every angry snap of his arm. He shoved the keys in his pocket, eyes unblinking. “If I have to watch you die _again,_ I’m going to lose my fucking nerve, Castiel. I swear to God, I lose my _fucking_ nerve.”

“Dean—” Cas tried to speak, but was cut off immediately.

Dean brought his hands together in front of his face like a parody of prayer, the tips of his fingers pointed at Cas. His face maintained its air of fury.

“Do you understand that you’re human? Like, do you _really_ understand? Once you’re dead, then you’re _dead_. There’s no apocalypse to stop, no heavenly mission for us; no one is going to resurrect you once you die. No one’s going to bring you back—”

“I don’t care!” Castiel suddenly fired back, twisting in his seat after all but tearing his seatbelt off. “I don’t care if I die! I only care that the angels return to Heaven, I only care that I fix what it is that I broke—”

“I cannot fucking bury you, Castiel!” Dean screamed back, his voice cracking.

A couple walking on the sidewalk beside the car jumped, his exclamation so loud it permeated the windows and steel frame of the Impala.

Cas was so fired up that he visibly shook and his collarbone was turning blotchy and red, but he also appeared to be at a loss for words. His eyes narrowed.

Dean, whose ears were ringing from the screaming match they were having, lowered his voice. His own hands shook as well, and hurt where he pressed them together too firmly. He tilted his hands up, away from Castiel, to press against his own lips. He stared out the window, past Cas’ shoulder.

Drastically quiet in comparison to before, Dean’s voice was eerily calm. “You’re going to get those warding tattoos. Both of them. And when the time comes for us to deal with the angels, _we’ll_ find them and we’ll do it on our terms.”

Cas lowered his gaze and tilted his head down, brown hair falling down onto his forehead, and his eyes resigned as he stared at the gearshift. Dean saw his lips purse and jaw jump.

Steadily, he carried on, determined, “I need you to be patient. We have a million and one things to worry about right now; Kevin and the tablets, Sam recovering from the trials, Abbadon, Crowley just stewing in our basement, and you, who is not handling being human well at all.

“I know it sucks, I know it’s not ideal. I know you feel fucked up about it, but this is your reality now.” If his voice turned gentler because Castiel’s chin crumpled a bit, it couldn’t be helped. “Your power now comes from being warded, from controlling when and where the bad guys find you. That’s all we have, Cas, some… semblance of control, of risk management in the middle of all the fear and pain and bullshit.”

Castiel’s interest in the gearshift was intense, his fingers absentmindedly rubbing together in his lap. In a gesture that felt too natural and too instinctual, Dean reached across the seat and held Cas’ hot, clammy hand in his own.

Cas’ eyes turned up to meet his, his face drawn. He looked like a hundred years of sleep would not leave him rested.

“Please do this, Cas. If not for you, then for me,” Dean pleaded, feeling very raw and exposed. His fingers twisted, intertwining with Cas’ fingers. “Just because you’re warded against them, doesn’t mean you’re abandoning them. We’ll find a way to fix this. You’ll find a way.

“You’ll be the one to save the angels, Cas,” Dean reassured.

Castiel’s lips slowly curled into a smile.

“I know.”

Dean sat beside Castiel as he got tattooed, quietly wrestling with a barrage of confusing emotions.

A small part of him was still angry at Castiel for putting him through this bullshit. It was exhausting to deal with this weird streak of illogical behavior from the former angel. Dean understood the desperation to save his family, he understood the sense of abandonment and isolation Cas was feeling. And Dean understood guilt all too well.

Dean even understood the reckless, erratic behavior that came with all of these emotions. But just because he understood it didn’t mean he wasn’t sick of watching his loved ones make hot-headed, ill-advised decisions under his watch and get themselves hurt.

Dean just wanted Cas to allow himself to be protected.

Also, Dean felt embarrassed for losing his cool on Cas, for raising his voice and flying off the handle in a way that was too reminiscent of his father. He wished he’d found a better way to convince Cas that he needed the angel warding. As he watched Cas receive the angel warding, his stomach twisted a bit, knowing it was partially allowed under duress. He wished Castiel had reached the decision on his own.

And if the two conflicting emotions of anger and embarrassment weren’t confusing enough, Dean felt shame burn in his face as his eyes dragged over Castiel’s body, drinking in every detail and contour of Cas’ back. His friend laid on his stomach on the cushioned black table, his t-shirt discarded and bunched in his hand, tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow.

As the tattoo artist, Trish, swept a damp paper towel down Cas’ spine, picking up ink and tiny droplets of blood, Dean felt a twinge of arousal. The swipe left a thin sheet of diluted water over Cas’ skin, only accentuating the contours of shifting, sliding muscle when Cas adjusted his position. Dean’ eyes danced over freckles smattered faintly over the top of Cas’ shoulders and down his lean torso, stopping where the tattoo gun buzzed in the soft curve of Cas’ lower back.

Cas exhaled heavily through his mouth, causing Dean glance up at his face. Cas shifted his face in his shirt, his fingers flexing and his eyes sliding closed. The expression on his face, while pained, looked indescribably sexy and made Dean immediately look away, his stomach twisted by lustful imagery that flashed across his mind. For the briefest of moments, he imagined that back in front of him rolling, arching, the tattoo shining under a thin layer of sweat. He imagined Cas pushing back against him, on his hands and knees. He imagined reaching forward and tangling one hand in Cas’ hair, the other hand curling around his shoulder for leverage so that he could—

Cas breathed carefully, inhaling through his nose and exhaling slowly through his mouth. Dean blinked back into reality.

While there’d been no protest for the anti-possession tattoo on his forearm, Trish had warned Cas about the pain of scratching the Enochian tattoo along his spine, but Cas wouldn’t budge on placement.

 _“I don’t want to be able to see it_ ,” Cas had explained briefly, his voice clipped.

While Dean didn’t envy how painful the procedure looked, he couldn’t deny how beautiful each Enochian symbol looked, etched into the dip of Cas’ spine. The pain would be worth it.

“Almost done,” Trish said kindly, wiping at the tattoo again. She leaned back over him after shifting in her seat and cracking her back.

“You’re in the home stretch,” Dean announced, hoping he sounded comforting.

Cas’ eyes slid open and he finally met Dean’s eye after avoiding his gaze for a good hour and a half. Dean was pleased to see a small smile on Cas’ lips and no residual anger lurking behind his eyes anymore.

“I’m glad,” Castiel murmured, looking away.

Then, after a pause, his eyes flickered back to his companion and he added quietly, his voice soft, “Thank you for sitting with me, Dean.”

Dean nodded slowly after a beat. “Don’t mention it.”

“Why?” asked Castiel curiously, frowning.

“It’s just an expression, Cas,” Dean replied, an amused smile dancing on his lips. For a moment, it was like their fight hadn’t happened, and the tension felt lifted.

“There! You’re all done, handsome.” Trish tapped Cas on the shoulder. “You can get up now—oh, be careful not to knock your arm on anything. I’m just gonna grab some more bandages for your back, but then you should be good to go.”

“Thank you,” said Cas, pushing himself up until he was straddling the table. The woman walked into a back room, leaving Cas and Dean alone in the small shop.

Dean got up and leaned over the table, scanning the fresh tattoo, admiring the thin lettering. Even though it was raw-looking and shiny, it was stunning, starting up at the base of his neck, cascading down the dip in his back, finishing just above his tailbone. It took concentrated restraint for Dean not to run his finger over it.

“This looks pretty neat, Cas,” Dean laughed. “I dig it.”

“I didn’t expect it to hurt that much,” Castiel admitted, unbunching his shirt, turning it in the air to find the collar. He slid his arms gingerly through the arm holes, but let the shirt bunch up around his shoulders and under his chin while he waited for Trish to return with bandages. “Why would anyone voluntarily choose to do this?”

Dean snorted. “Dunno, but you should definitely get more.”

“Why?” Castiel asked suspiciously. “I don’t think I need any more warding.”

“Because I think it makes you look hot.”

The words had slipped out by accident and Dean immediately felt like throwing up when he said them, shocked at his own mistake. _How stupid are you,_ he thought to himself, shaken. His filter had picked a colossally bad time to malfunction.

Cas turned his head quickly, staring at Dean over his shoulder, this brow twitching into a furrow, confusion crossing his face. Then... curiously, the ghost of a small toothy smile spread over Cas’ lips.

Dean made a small choking noise and opened his mouth, adding, “I mean, I don’t mean _I_ think you look hot, just… y’know, chicks will think so, is what I meant.”

Cas’ little smile faltered, fell, and then he turned away from Dean, nodding.

“Right,” Cas agreedly shortly.

Dean opened his mouth to say…to say something, he didn’t know what. The quick disappearance of Cas’ smile made Dean’s stomach feel upset for some reason.

Whatever he would have said was interrupted when Trish came back, already rattling off aftercare instructions. Dean was forced to swallow his words and sit in his embarrassment as she gave Cas detailed instructions on when to remove and change his bandages, all while patching him up and helping him get his t-shirt over his head without bothering the new tattoo.

They left the shop in silence, a different tension heavy in the space between them.

Twenty minutes into a wordless, silent car ride, Dean cleared his throat, looking over at Cas. His friend was leaned forward with his elbows on his knees so his back wouldn’t press against the seat, and was scrolling through his phone with a scowl on his face.

The playfulness from earlier was set aside, for being back in the car brought them back to their fight earlier. The feeling of disaccord lingered in the air.

“I’m sorry I blew up at you earlier,” Dean said seriously, shifting in his seat.

“It’s all right, Dean,” Castiel replied, his voice quiet. He didn’t raise his head and continued scrolling.

“I mean, I meant what I said, but y’know… I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled back,” Castiel offered in return, though Dean detected a bit of resentment in his tone. “I also meant what I said; I don’t care what happens to me.”

“You should,” Dean pressed, forcibly resisting the urge to reply with anger again.

“No, I shouldn’t.” Cas’ voice was quiet. “My existence doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t matter.”

“You do,” Dean urged, his voice tight. “You matter, Cas.”

Cas’ reply was strangely flat. “You’re wrong, Dean. My only purpose is to help the angels return home. Other than that, I have no purpose. If I have to die to get them home, then my death will be worth it. My existence as a human on this earth doesn’t matter, not like you, not like Sam. I don’t matter to anything, to anyone.”

Dean licked his lips and exhaled carefully through his mouth, staring sadly out the windshield. His stomach twisted painfully, feeling hollow.

“You matter to me, Cas,” Dean breathed, unable to bring himself to look at his friend. The declaration was so heavy with emotion it made his body feel like lead.

He felt Cas look up at him, the contents of his phone forgotten. Dean felt the intense gaze on the side of his face for a long time as the town blurred past them, fading away and turning into forestry and industrial lots.

Eventually, Cas looked away. He didn’t say anything more.

When they pulled up to the bunker door, Dean put the car in park and turned off the engine. Silence filled the cabin and neither man moved.

Castiel audibly exhaled and was the first to reach for a handle to leave. A hand on his wrist, tugging gently, stopped him.

Looking up at Dean, Castiel’s blue eyes searching his face, looking for an answer to the ever-present question that constantly hung suspended between them, between these brief touches, and small smiles, and long stares, and heated arguments.

Dean wasn’t ready to give him those answers. Instead, he opened his mouth, unsure of what he wanted to say. Then, in almost a whisper, Dean said, “Thank you for getting the angel warding.”

Castiel was quiet for a second too long. Dean noticed a muscle jump in Cas’ jaw. Then the angel gently pulled his wrist from Dean’s grip and he opened his door, slipping out into the cool fall air.

“Don’t mention it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GASP. What is going on with Cas?
> 
> Let me know what you think is going on in the comments. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

It was difficult to focus on the small printed words on the page in front of him. Castiel exhaled slowly, his fingers digging into his temples, trying to ignore to incessant whispers in his head.

Across from him, Kevin muttered to himself and scribbled furiously on a small square of yellow sticky paper, smacking it down onto a page and making scratchy notes in his notebook. Dean twisted his fork around some noodles, loudly slurping them into his mouth, unaware of how obnoxious he sounded as he watched music videos on his laptop, earbuds in. Sam tapped away at his tablet and flipped pages of a heavy, thin-papered encyclopedia. Occasionally, Kevin dragged the stone tablets across the table, setting Castiel’s teeth on edge.

And then the whispers… they were indiscernible. Voices drifted in and out of his psyche, sounding like they were in another room or travelling underwater. Sometimes they were clearer, with words occasionally reaching through the fog, but it was hard to hear them or piece them together with the ceaseless noises in the room. 

When Castiel glanced up at the old, weathered, twisted looking book (the “creepy-murder book” as Dean had named it) at Kevin’s elbow, left forgotten under a scrunched up candy bar wrapper, the voices grew louder, speaking over each other in frantic whispers. They grew so loud that Castiel pushed his fingers in his ears, irrationally thinking that would quiet them. 

Sam’s tapping, Kevin’s muttering, and Dean’s slurping faded into the background as his eyes narrowed in on the book, the voices suddenly clear, nasally whispers urging in a frantic, excited tone;

_“Open it. Open it. Open it. Openitopenitopenit--”_

_“_ Cas!” 

Dean’s voice broke through the chatter that had been growing in an overwhelming crescendo. Castiel’s eyes snapped over to Dean, pulling his fingers out of his ears. 

The voices stopped abruptly.

Dean twirled his headphones around his finger, grinning. “Are we being distracting?”

Castiel glanced back over at the book, swallowing deeply. He ignored Dean’s question and nodded over at the artifact. “What is that doing here?”

Sam and Kevin stopped their fidgeting, falling silent. The only sound was the faint buzzing of Dean’s music coming through his headphones. 

“We…” Sam started, glancing over at Dean. “We thought we’d do some research into it. We figured we’d try and translate the page you read from, to make sure it was safe.”

“It’s in super-old Enochian though,” Kevin explained, sounding frustrated. “It’s going to take forever to translate.”

Castiel licked his lips, staring at the book. Almost without control, he rasped, “I’ll translate it.”

Sam and Kevin raised their eyebrows at each other but Dean lifted himself off the chair a bit, leaning over the table to grab the book. His fingers curled around the spine and he dragged it over to his side of the table, out of Castiel’s reach.

Castiel’s chest tightened and stomach gave a lurch inexplicably. In his lap, his hand balled into a fist.

“We’re good, Cas,” Dean said, patting the twisted, distorted leather cover of the book. He turned his attention back to his computer. “We’ve got it. You focus on helping Kevin with the tablets.”

“Dean, it’ll take me only a moment,” Castiel argued. “Enochian is my mother tongue, I could—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted curtly, his voice warning. He stared hard at the laptop screen in front of him. “I said we’re good.”

Castiel didn’t understand, he could translate the pages in seconds without any thought or delay. Reading Enochian was as easy and as automatic as breathing. He glanced at the book, the smallest of whispers audible in the distance. 

_Open it... Open it._

“You’re ‘good’?” Castiel asked coldy. 

Sam and Kevin looked up from their work, brows raised. 

Castiel carried on, not thrown by the narrowing of Dean’s eyes, “So making absolutely no progress is considered ‘good’ now? I’ve been wondering why it’s been weeks that we’ve been holed up here with nothing to show for it, but now I realise that it’s because you’re ‘good’.”

Sam and Kevin were visibly thrown by Castiel’s icy tone, while Dean’s face immediately darkened into a frown. Castiel was aware that he was behaving irrationally, emotions getting the better of him, frustration egged on by claustrophobia and restlessness making him snap, but he was unable to stop himself as the words dripped off his tongue like venom. For a frightening moment, he felt like he couldn’t control himself.

Dean pressed his hand to the top of the book and slid it an inch away from Castiel, the small movement throwing fuel on the flame alight in Cas’ chest. 

“You wanna help us with this book?” Dean asked, fired up. He leaned forward ever so slightly, his tone biting. “You can help by staying away from it. The reason it’s up here in the first place is because you decided to read from it, and now we have one more thing to worry about on top of angels, and demons, and friggin’ tablets, okay?”

“You don’t even know what it says,” Castiel snapped. “It… Dean, it could help me put the angels back in Heaven. If it’s in Enochian, it was written for angels, for me. ”

“You,” Dean snapped, pointing abruptly at him, “are not an angel anymore.” 

Nearly everyone bristled. 

Castiel went dangerously still, which felt miraculous because his insides felt like they were thrumming with rage, his skin itching with a rush of shocked adrenaline.

Sam put a hand on Castiel’s upper arm but Castiel shook it off, his eyes snapping to the younger Winchester before they wrenched back, focusing on Dean. His frustration built in his shoulders, making them tight and hard.

Dean laughed but the sound was mirthless. “Besides, the Men of Letters deemed the book so dangerous that they locked it away under a steel hatch. Do you seriously think it’s going to help you fix Heaven?”

Dean lip curled. “And you don’t know what it says either, okay? You don’t remember because you let some voice put you into a trance, Ginny Weasley. So no, we don’t want your ‘help’ translating these words, which by the way—” Dean swiped a hand up the side of the book, its pages flapping, “—are carved into the pages with blood. That should have been clue number one to not read the fucking book. For all we know, this thing opens the fucking Chamber of Secrets.”

Sam groaned. “Dude, come on.”

“I don’t understand that reference, Dean!” Castiel pointed out angrily, pushing his chair away from the table. 

“What else is new?” Dean snapped. Cas fingers, splayed out on the table top, dug into the wood. He glared at Dean, who matched his fervour right back. 

“Guys, relax,” Kevin warned nervously.

“This book might be able to point us in the right direction,” Castiel growled.

Dean stood, gesturing around the library with an aggressive sweep of his arm. “Any one of these books can point us in the right direction. What the hell is your draw to this one?”

Dean snapped his laptop closed, twisting his body to face Castiel, his face indicating that all his patience was lost. 

“I do not trust you with this book, understood?” Dean’s barely-concealed fury twisted around the words as they left his lips. “You’re to stay away from this thing until we’ve figured out whether or not it’s going to murder us all in our sleep. I don’t want to hear any more about the fucking book from you, got it?”

Unable to manage his anger, Castiel rose to his feet as well, his fingers rubbing frantically at his palms, the skin damp and clammy. Heat rose up his chest, the skin burning on the back of his neck. He stared at Dean, then his eyes dragged over to the book under Dean’s palm. 

Twisting within the crevices of his rage, a tingle spread through his arms and legs. His own voice, but different somehow, whispered to him in the back of his mind. _He’s getting in the way. He’s trying to keep me from helping my family. He never wants me to go home. He doesn’t care._

Castiel’s eyes snapped once more to Dean’s face, hating every angry twist of the other human’s features. 

He stormed out of the room.

As Castiel turned the corner to the kitchen, he heard the scraping of chair legs against the floor, followed by a condescending taunt from Dean; “Let him go, Sam. Let him throw his little tantrum.”

Castiel crossed the kitchen, the exchange between Dean and his brother falling outside of his earshot. He wrenched open the refrigerator door and stood in the front of it, tapping his foot and staring into its dim contents as he fumed.

_“You are not an angel anymore.”_

After a good minute of straight staring at a tupperware of leftover spaghetti, Castiel realised that he had no idea why he’d opened the door. Exhaling slowly through his nose, he shook his head, trying to shake off the overwhelming frustration from his head, and retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge. 

He dropped onto one of the benches at the dinner table, staring at their small hand washing sink, not really seeing it. 

_Control yourself, Castiel,_ he thought. _This is unlike you, this rage. You are losing yourself. What has gotten into you?_

He slid his arms over the table, curling forward and pressing his forehead to the smooth, cool wood. It felt soothing against his hot forehead. It occurred to Castiel that there was a thin layer of sweat on his forehead—he felt it slipping against the wood. He sat up and pressed his hand against his forehead, skin slipping against sweat beading along his hairline, a frown etched onto his lips. 

Sam hadn’t heeded Dean’s warning. Castiel, eyes shut, his fingers massaging his hairline, heard his footsteps slowly clunk down the two steps into the kitchen.

“Hey, Cas. You alright?” Sam asked carefully, stopping at the head of the table, pressing his fingers to the surface of it. 

Castiel glanced up at Sam, anger draining. 

He tried not to take out his frustration on Sam, he knew it would be misdirected, that it wouldn’t be right. Sam had been nothing but kind to him since the fall of the angels. 

He’d sat with him in the mornings to eat breakfast and helped him learn how to run; taught him how to control his breathing so he didn’t tire himself out too quickly, and hold his back straight so he could strengthen his core muscles. Sam talked to him about mundane things on their cool-down walks back to the bunker and was encouraging when Castiel felt disappointed with the stamina of his human body. 

When Castiel had discovered he was losing his ability to speak and comprehend several languages, Sam had sat on the edge of his bed with volumes upon volumes of encyclopedias and dictionaries, trying to help him sort out which languages he still knew. 

Sam had loaded Castiel’s phone with music and lent him earbuds. _I know music helps me when I’m… not feeling myself, when I’m thinking too much, uh, or when I can’t sleep. Maybe it’ll help you too._

With concentration on keeping his voice steadier, calmer, Castiel nodded jerkily. “I’m fine, Sam.”

“Look, about what Dean said,” Sam said in a frustratingly soft way, “about you not being an angel anymore... It’s not true.”

“Please,” Castiel interrupted, his voice strangely tight. His throat felt like it was constricting. He stared down hard at the table, hating the horrible tight feeling in his sinuses and the way his eyes stung a bit. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Sam looked like he wanted to probe more, but instead, he slipped his fingers off the table and turned his back to Castiel as he walked the short distance to the fridge, reaching in and retrieving a container. Instead of returning to his brother and Kevin, Sam sat down in front of Castiel, cracking open the container of sliced fruit and sliding it across the table.

“When was the last time you ate?” Sam asked, biting into a slice of apple.

Castiel realised he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon before going to the tattoo parlour with Dean. His stomach churned uncomfortably. Glancing at Sam, he hesitated, then helped himself to half of a pear. 

“Not for a while,” he admitted, staring down at the piece of fruit held gingerly in his fingers.

Sam made a small noise of acknowledgment and nudged the container towards Castiel more. 

“You shouldn’t do that, Cas. Remember? You have to eat.” 

Castiel vividly recalled sitting at the base of the stairs to the bunker days after the Fall, feeling simultaneously numb and turbulently upset. He hadn’t been able to sleep. In the early hours of the morning, Sam had sat down beside him in the semi-darkness and shared the other half of his sandwich with him. In his mind, he recalled Sam’s comforting advice, “ _Whenever you feel like shit, try to remind yourself when you’ve eaten last. Everything feels worse when you’re hungry.”_

Castiel continued to stare at the piece of fruit. He did feel like... shit. He’d woken up that morning feeling achy and tired. The thought of eating anything made him nauseous but he knew he should try. His stomach did feel a bit better since morning… 

He raised the fruit to his mouth and chewed slowly, glancing up at Sam, starting to feel embarrassed for his outburst in the map room. 

The pear tasted like ash.

Sam exhaled through his nose. Then he smiled at tiredly. 

“Cas, you wanna talk?” 

Even if Castiel did want to talk - which he didn’t - he wouldn’t know where to start. _I’m hearing unfamiliar voices, strange whispers in my head. I haven’t told you because I… I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to give Dean another reason to be furious with me. I feel lost. I’m so angry all the time and I don’t know what to do. I can hear the angels. God, I miss them so much. I can’t stand it in here anymore, I have to do something. I feel restless, hopeless, useless, lost. This pear is disgusting, how do I force this down?_

The words were on the tip of his tongue. He knew he should tell Sam about the voices, about the angels speaking to him, and about the slow bubbling of rage in his chest growing as the days passed. He knew he should tell Sam about his diminishing patience, about the restlessness that grew within him, and the itching, aching feeling festering inside his belly. Every time he woke up, every morning after very few hours of sleep, he felt worse—more angry, less like himself. _I’m losing myself._

“No,” he replied instead. 

He swallowed the fruit with difficulty. He avoided looking Sam in the eye.

Despite his attempt to avoid conversation, Sam pressed on. “Are you sure? ‘Cause you’ve been acting kind of weird lately.”

The temptation to deny Sam’s observation was strong, but Castiel chose to remain silent instead. He pushed the rest of the pear into his mouth, chewing slowly to avoid replying, even though the ash-taste made him want to gag.

Sam leaned forward, his eyes alight with concern. “Cas?”

He was going to reply, finally, but his limbs began tingling and there was a loud bursting sound of static before—

_Castiel, brother, where are you?_

_I can’t feel Castiel anymore… Father, please, I can’t feel him anymore…_

_He left us._

_He_ left _us._

They were back, after days of silence.

The weeping from the angels returned, this time clearer, louder, like they were in the room. He no longer had to strain to hear them through static. Castiel bowed his head, pressing his face into his hand, elbow digging hard into the table. 

“Cas? Castiel?” 

Sam’s hand was on his shoulder, reaching for him across the table. The pressing of his fingers against his skin felt like burning. Castiel blindly reached up with his free hand, shoving Sam off of his shoulder.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Sam,” Cas whispered roughly. “I want to be left alone.”

_Oh, God, someone help us…_

_… I can’t remain on this earth anymore, I hate it, I hate it…._

Castiel heard Sam get up quietly, his footsteps fading away as he undoubtedly disappeared down the hallway, respecting Castiel’s wishes. 

The sound of his brothers and sisters suffering made him feel hollow. He felt hot and cold at the same time and his stomach turned.

_There has to be a way home._

_Castiel is gone, he is dead. We’re stranded… oh, God… we’re stranded._

_Why can’t I feel him anymore?_

_The coward, he left us._

Castiel was across the room in two strides, leaning over the sink and retching heavily into the sink, vomiting everything that had been in his stomach. 

_Coward._

_Coward._

_Coward._

Water splashed down into the sink, curling around vomit, swirling down into the drain. Cas stood over it, eyes wide, his entire body shaking. He felt beads of sweat trickle down his neck, slipping over his collarbone and cascading down his chest, caught in his t-shirt. His breath came out in bursts.

_What could he have done for us anyway, that wingless, heartless—_

_He’s hidden himself from us, he’s running away!_

He was rifling around in the kitchen drawers, utensils clattering to the ground. An entire drawer was tossed aside, smashing into pieces across the floor.

Very far in the distance, he heard someone—maybe one of the Winchesters—calling his name.

Castiel wasn’t getting enough air, his chest felt tight. His head spinning fast, so fast.

_I can’t believe he left us… This can’t be true._

_… Castiel has never done anything but hurt us._

He didn’t know how he got there, but Castiel was in the bathroom, across the bunker. He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his own terrified face. He was trembling, and sweat darkened the collar and sides of his shirt. 

Sweat tumbled down his spine, over the anti-angel Enochian warding. 

“I haven’t left you,” he whispered frantically, his eyes darting around, unseeing. He felt hot, thick tears tumbling down his face. “I haven’t left you. I’m right here…”

_… Heartless, cold…_

_He always chose the humans over us._

_He’s hiding from us._

BANG.

_BANG._

There was the sound of pounding. There were muffled voices calling his name, but not loud enough. Not loud enough to hear over the weeping and wailing of his brothers and sisters in his head. 

Castiel faintly heard the sound of his own screaming and felt his knees sting painfully, shocks shooting up his legs as he fell to the floor, one hand gripping the edge of the sink. His arm was twisted behind his back, his hand was wrapped around the handle of—

_He did this on purpose, this fate for us was his will. I know it._

_No, no, no, no. Why can’t I feel him anymore? Castiel!_

_Castiel is not family._

_Castiel is a traitor._

_He left us. He left us._

“Castiel! Cas! No, _stop_!” 

—a knife was be pried from his fingers. Angel radio abruptly went silent. 

Castiel snapped back to reality, shocked at the sound of his own hoarse, rasping gasps. His chest burned and his fingers ached as someone yanked at them, trying to uncurl them from the handle of a kitchen knife. 

Castiel, with a burst of effort, let go of the knife. It dropped to the ground, sliding across the bathroom tile, hitting the wall with a clang. 

He inhaled in a panic, his breath wheezing, his limbs shaking. Dean’s voice echoed through the bathroom, loud from in front of his face. 

“Cas!”

“Dean?” Castiel breathed, eyes focusing on the scene before him. 

Dean was on the floor with him, their legs intertwined, one of Dean’s strong arms around shoulders, the other holding Castiel’s wrist in a vice grip. Dean’s face was stricken with terror, eyes searching Castiel’s face, roiling with confusion and fear. Behind him stood Kevin and Sam in the doorway, eyes wide, both looking horrified. 

Dean’s released his wrist and grabbed Castiel’s face, his fingers digging into his jaw. He gave him a shake. Castiel felt his distress build by the sheer amount of fright in Dean’s eyes. 

“Cas,” Dean rasped, giving Castiel another aggressive shake, “are you here? Are you here?”

Castiel swallowed, his breathing fast and shallow. He sniffled and blinked, realizing he was crying, tears thick under his eyes, running around his nose and over his lips. He nose ran and sweat poured down the side of his face, soaking into the skin of Dean’s hand.

“I—” Castiel’s breath hitched, but he managed to nod. “I’m h-here.”

Dean looked over his shoulder at Kevin and barked quickly, “Go to the infirmary, get supplies.”

Dean’s head snapped around again, eyes boring into Castiel’s. Fiercely, he demanded, “What’s going on, Cas? Tell me what’s happening.”

“The angels,” Cas choked, his free hand coming up to grasp at Dean’s arms. “They think I left them, t-they think I did this on purpose! _They_ _think_ _I left them_ —”

“The angels?” Sam breathed. 

“I can hear them,” whispered Castiel, swallowing more hysteria as it tried rising up again, “in my head.”

Sam swore under his breath and ran his fingers through his hair, his hands settling at the top of his head. Dean stared at Castiel, stunned.

“You… you can hear them in your head?” Dean’s eyes searched Castiel’s face desperately. “How is that possible, Cas?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel swallowed. “I don’t know.”

He tried to regain some composure, his swallowing gasps calming into shallow breaths. “But something’s changed. They’re angry, they’re…” _He left us. Coward._ His breath picked up again, panic thrumming through his limbs. “They’re furious. They said they can’t feel me anymore. They feel betrayed—”

Dean’s other hand came up to hold the other side of Castiel’s face, holding him still. Dean tilted his chin down, his eyes trained firmly on Castiel’s, a comforting, steady source of support. “Focus,” he whispered. “Focus, Cas.”

Kevin rushed in with the first aid kit and Sam followed him, stepping into the bathroom. They stepped over Dean and Castiel, ducking behind Castiel’s back. 

“How bad is it?” Dean asked them, pulling his gaze away from Castiel’s face.

Confused, Castiel was about to ask what was going on, but released a strangled cry through his teeth when Sam peeled his t-shirt away from his body, lifting it up to his shoulders. 

“What is going on?” Castiel growled through his teeth, clenched in pain. His fingers tightened around Dean’s arms. 

“Fuck. He sliced right through a few of the sigils,” Sam’s replied from behind. “I don’t think the cuts are too deep, though.”

“God, that’s so much blood,” Kevin breathed.

“Just hold his shirt up, Kevin!”

“What did I do?” Castiel asked. An involuntary whine escaped him when something wet swept across his back, stinging and burning horribly.

“What did you do?” Dean echoed back to him, brows furrowing. “Cas, you fucking sliced yourself up.”

Terror settled in the pit of Castiel’s stomach. Cas’ trembling gaze shifted to the blood-slicked kitchen knife on the floor, then snapped back to Dean. “I... What?” 

Dean’s head tilted a bit, face twisted, looking perplexed. 

“Don’t you remember?”

It wasn’t as bad as they’d initially thought it was. 

Once the blood was wiped away, they confirmed that many of Cas’ wounds were mostly skin-deep. He must have hacked blindly at his back, and not for long because other than a few shallow cuts along the Enochian sigils, the dull knife had only caused one or two semi-deep cuts on the ligaments on either side of Cas’ spine.

Cas laid on his bed on his stomach, arms tucked under his chest, while Sam and Dean tended to his wounds, Dean cleaning the shallow ones, while Sam stitched up the deeper cuts carefully, his hands steadier than Dean’s. He tried to ensure that the anti-angel sigils still lined up as he weaved the thread through Cas’ skin. 

Cas was quiet except for the occasional hiss or grunt of discomfort. Before moving him from the bathroom, Dean had given him a Valium from his personal supply, hoping to calm him down, hoping the shaking would ease up and maybe open him up to tell them what happened more clearly.

But Dean noticed as Cas lay on his bed, that he looked disconnected, his eyes unfocused. As they questioned him about what he remembered—which turned out to be very little—his voice was low and quiet, almost sounding shy or ashamed. 

By the time he was stitched, numbed, and bandaged, Cas’ eyelids were heavy and visibly trying to close. 

Sam gathered bloody rags and lifted the bowl of water they’d used to wipe blood away over to the sink in the corner, pouring the pink liquid down the drain. 

Dean glanced at Sam’s back, then turned to Cas. He placed a gentle hand on the top of his shoulder.

“All done, buddy,” Dean said quietly. 

Castiel nodded, tired, glassy eyes glancing up at Dean. “Thank you.”

Dean’s fingers slid across clammy skin and slowly tucked a damp piece of brown hair behind Castiel’s ear. He smiled tightly and murmured, “Don’t mention it.”

The smile he received back was wistful.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at his brother, who looked away quickly, apparently witnessing the small exchange between his older brother and the angel. Dean quickly pulled his hand back, casting his eyes down to the floor, a silent curse word on his lips.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly and nudged his head towards the door, indicating for his brother to follow. Then he stepped out into the hallway, disappearing in the direction of the war room. 

Dean turned back to Castiel, who was staring dully at the corner of his nightstand. 

“You should sleep, Cas. Get some rest. We’ll all talk again in the morning.” 

“Thank you,” Castiel breathed, his voice muffled and rough against the pillow. 

Reluctant to leave, but knowing his younger brother was waiting for him in the hallway, Dean stood, tugging on a metal string dangling under the lamp shade to turn off Cas’ light. With a small click, the room went dark, and the only light was the one shining in from the hallway, casting dimly over his friend’s prone body. 

Dean couldn’t help it—as he stood and stepped to walk out of the room, he reached down and ran his hand over Castiel’s hair, fingers dragging limply down his neck and over the skin of his shoulder in a gesture of silent apology, of regret. While he knew something outside of their control was going on, Dean couldn’t help but feel like he had somehow caused this, or at least worsened it. 

_“You are not an angel anymore.”_

Dean’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t meant to say that. It had just slipped out in anger. But Cas had looked like he’d been slapped. Dean opened his mouth to apologize.

Warm fingers reached up and wrapped around Dean’s hand. They stayed that that, still in the near-darkness of Castiel’s room, for a long drawn-out moment. 

The apology faded on his tongue. The guilt was overwhelming, forming a thick lump in his throat, especially with Cas’ fingers wrapped in his. Cas was so forgiving. Dean didn’t deserve it.

Then Dean pulled away, crossing the room with determined strides, grunting at his brother as he walked past him in the hallway. Sam pushed off the wall and followed Dean as he led him to the war room.

“What the fuck,” Dean whispered heatedly, “is going on?”

Sam exhaled heavily through his nose, shaking his head. They rounded a corner, passing their rooms and hopping up the steps into the war room. 

“This makes no sense,” Sam spoke quietly. “There’s no way the angels could be speaking to him. This entire place is warded against them and that tattoo would block angel radio anyway, right?”

“That’s the idea,” Dean replied darkly, dragging a chair out from under the table and slowly lowering himself into it. 

Sam sat across from him. He folded his arms in front of him and leaned heavily on the table. He gnawed at his lips, looking bewildered.

“He can’t be hearing the angels,” Sam brooded. “It’s impossible.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his mouth, his head shaking almost imperceptibly. “Who knows, Sam? Maybe there’s a loophole. Maybe—”

“No,” Sam interrupted. “Dean, humans can’t hear angels’ true voices. His hearing would explode, he’d go deaf.”

Dean stared at Sam, his eyes narrowing as he remembered. Then he nodded, “Pamela was a psychic, she had powers, and even she couldn’t handle seeing one angel...”

“Imagine listening to hundreds of them,” Sam finished for his brother, shrugging his shoulders. The two fell into a disturbed silence.

Then Sam spoke up. “In his room, what was he saying about them talking to him?” 

“Oh, right,” Dean muttered. “He was saying they’d been talking at him for days, wanting his help, wanting him to take them home. He… he said they claimed they missed him, that they loved him.”

Sam seemed to wince. Dean empathized with Sam. 

“That’s…unlikely.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean shut his eyes, feeling a headache start behind his eyes. His fingers came up to rub at his temple. “But even I’m not enough of a dick to tell a guy his family probably doesn’t love him.”

Sam bowed his head, digging his nail into a crevice in the table, tracing the edge with his finger. “There’s no way it’s the angels talking to him.”

Dean glided his hands over his face and leaned back in his chair, groaning into them. He slid his fingers through his hair and then threw his hands up, letting them slap down hard on the armrests.

“Well, who the hell is talking to Cas then?”

His younger brother stared off into the distance, tongue darting out to swipe over dry lips. He was quiet for a minute, then slowly Sam’s face turned towards the library. His eyes darkened.

Dean stared at this brother, confused, then followed his gaze. A horrible sinking feeling twisted in his gut.

The book—that creepy-twisted book—sat open on the edge of the closest library table. 

The boys stood in sync, slowly moving towards the artifact, their faces twisted in contempt, their stances cautious. As they reached the table, the two stood over the book, staring down at it with distrust.

“Do you think…” 

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean whispered, “I think so.”

Sam reached forward, running his fingers over the open page, over a terrifying illustration. The twisted face of a mutilated and sliced corpse, skewered on the end of a sword, stared up at the boys. The slices across the body’s torso hit a bit too close to home. The page itself was distorted, lines slashed across it like someone had tried desperately to scratch away the picture with their nails.

“Cas told us he didn’t ‘read the whole thing’,” Sam said.

A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumped. “Maybe he didn’t need to read the whole page. We don’t fucking know what it says. Maybe ‘the whole thing’ is only a line, maybe it’s a couple pages. We don’t know.”

“We have to find out what the original page says, Dean.”

Dean reached forward and snapped the book shut. He fixed Sam with a hard stare. “You and Kevin get on this tomorrow. And Sam, hide the book. Cas can’t get his hands on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun, dun, duuuun. The chaos begins! 
> 
> In The Evil Dead movie, this chapter would parallel the events of the shower scene, if you horror movie junkies catch my drift. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At one point in this chapter, Castiel is listening to a song. If you'd like to listen concurrently, here is the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbity554pSg
> 
> Song: Run From Me by Timbre Timbre

“Maybe we should show this to Crowley,” Kevin suggested to Dean, tapping the back of his pencil on one of the grungy pages of the malicious tome. The prophet sat on Sam’s bed, surrounded by notes and encyclopedias, the open pages bright with highlighter markings and sticky notes. In his lap, the malevolent ancient book sat open.

Behind him, Sam was balancing on the two back legs of his desk chair, his feet pressed against his bedside table. He watched Dean carefully and drummed his finger on trackpad of his laptop.

Dean stared dumbly at Kevin, his mouth parted. After a pause, he pointed at the book in question and narrowed his eyes. “Hold up—you want to show Crowley the creepy-satanic-murder book?”

Sam and Kevin exchanged peeved looks. They both turned to Dean again.

“Yes,” Kevin pressed. “We’ve managed to translate most of that original page and a few before and after, but there are still a few symbols that are different enough that we could be getting the meanings completely wrong.”

“Oh, sure,” Dean nodded sarcastically, shoving his hands in his pocket. “Let’s continue to hide the book from Cas but allow the King of Hell to have a casual read. Cool. Why don’t we unshackle him and give him his own room too? I’ll go fluff his pillows for him.”

Sam rolled his eyes and groaned, “Dean, it’s been days since we actively started translating this thing. We need to figure this out fast. Cas is getting worse.”

“He’s fine,” Dean responded. “His back is healing up, he’s left his room—”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam interrupted with a mocking, derisive tone. He waved an arm through the air as he spoke. “He’s finally left his room _after three days_. His back—the one, may I remind you, that he sliced up himself while in some kind of fugue state—is only kind of starting to heal. Dean, he looks like shit, and he barely eats anything. All he does is sit in front of that damn computer, trying to find out stuff about the angels, as if MSNBC is gonna have a front-page article about the current state of affairs in Heaven.”

Dean ducked his head, staring at his own foot as he toed the leg of Sam’s bed. He felt sufficiently scolded and knew Sam was right. It was irresponsible to downplay what was going on with Cas.

“Okay,” Dean said with a sigh. “Write out the symbols you don’t understand and show them to Crowley, but don’t tell him about the book. Make something up.” He paused. “How close are we?”

Sam and Kevin exchanged looks, then Kevin smiled nervously. “Pretty close. If Crowley translates this, we might actually be able to read this with context. What we have so far just kind of sounds like run-of-the-mill oogly-boogly satanic ritual stuff.”

“How academic of you,” Sam snorted.

Kevin looked over his shoulder at him, grinning. “It’s the scientific classification.”

Dean got to this feet, rolling his eyes. He threw them a look of disapproval. “Alright, alright. Settle down, nerds. Get the symbols to Crowley and let’s shut down this creepy-murder-book bullshit A.S.A.P.”

Dean found Castiel in the library, sitting stiffly in one of the wooden chairs, his head rested against his propped up fist, watching a video on Dean’s laptop. He was wearing the same white t-shirt he’d worn yesterday and the same wrinkled blue jeans. Dean wondered if he’d slept in them.

As he walked behind his friend, Dean brushed his fingers over the back of Cas’ neck and set a plate of food down by his elbow. Cas jumped a bit under his touch.

Dean lowered his hand to his side, flexing his fingers and then balling them into a fist. He sat down in a chair beside Cas, leaning back in it.

Cas slid his elbow off the table and turned his body towards Dean a bit. Their knees pressed together.

“Eat,” Dean advised quietly.

Cas’ light blue eyes flitted down to the plate, peering at the baked potato and steamed veggies with zero enthusiasm. His adam’s apple bobbled in his throat and his face paled.

“No, thank you.”

An insistent finger slid the plate closer towards him. The ceramic tapped the edge of the laptop with a click.

“You’re probably starved. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t have anything at breakfast this morning.”

For a moment, Dean thought Cas was going to protest again, but then he watched his friend stab a small piece of steamed broccoli with a fork and put it in his mouth.

He watched Cas press a hand to his mouth and gag a bit.

“Jeeze,” Dean joked. “Not a fan of broccoli, huh?”

Cas looked like he had some trouble swallowing before he shook his head. “No, it’s… it’s fine. Just... not hungry.”

After a precarious moment where Cas paled even further and Dean thought he might actually hurl, Cas shuddered and turned back to Dean’s laptop, tapping repeatedly on the down-arrow to scroll the screen down.

Dean sat beside Cas in silence, watching him. He decided not to force Cas to eat anymore.

“How’s your back?” Dean asked. He asked every day.

“It itches,” Cas muttered.

“Yeah,” Dean said, running fingers over his forehead softly, “it’ll do that while everything heals.”

Cas smiled sideways at Dean. “It sucks.”

The smile and the words made Dean’s heart flutter a bit. With all the shit going on and the angry exchanges between them lately, it was a good change to see Cas smile. But there were dark smudges under his eyes and a subtle sheen to his skin that rapidly changed the fluttering to a worried squeezing.

“You been sleeping okay, Cas?” Dean asked, searching his friend’s tired face.

Cas looked away and tapped at the arrow key again. “Yes.”

 _Liar_.

As his own insomnia kept him up at night, Dean could hear Cas’ feet padding down the hallways at the early hours of the morning. He heard Cas’ bedroom door open and close, and sometimes when they both left their bedroom doors open to circulate fresh air, Dean heard Cas’ bed creaking from the room next door as he tossed and turned.

“So…you been hearing any more voices?”

Castiel froze. “Voices?”

He turned his head to stare at Dean with a peculiar look on his face.

“Yeah, the angels,” Dean replied. “You heard from them again yet?”

“Oh,” Cas said. His eyes darted to Dean’s face, then back down to the laptop. His shoulders relaxed. “No. They’ve been silent.”

“Great,” Dean said. He reached forward and clapped Cas on the leg. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Cas hummed shortly. Dean glanced at the screen.

“You finding anything?” Dean asked, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His shoulder bumped with Cas’.

“Some,” Cas admitted. “I found a few reports of people found with their eyes burnt out of their skulls, but nothing close by and the stories are far and few between.”

Dean frowned, tilting his head to look up at Cas. “They’re burning people’s eyes out? So they have their grace? Whatever happened to _‘grace to flesh’_?”

Cas, eyes still trained on the screen, shrugged. “I can only speculate, but perhaps ‘grace to flesh’ does not necessarily eradicate the existence of grace. I’m beginning to think the two things aren’t mutually exclusive.” Castiel licked his lips. “I think their bodies are laced with grace, the same way witches have magic in their blood.”

“Holy shit,” Dean exhaled, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “Are you sure?”

Castiel tilted his head down to look at Dean. “I don’t know. This phenomenon is unprecedented. Angels haven’t ever had flesh and bone of their own, we have only ever had vessels.”

“I mean… this is good news, right?” Dean asked, confused. “They have their grace. They’re still angel-angels and not human?”

“At least some of them,” Cas murmured, eyes darting distractedly over the article in front of him. Dean was surprised at the former angel’s lack of enthusiasm. It worried him.

“Cas, isn’t that a good thing?”

Cas looked down at the laptop keyboard. He dragged a finger over the bottom of the keys, his nail digging and dipping into the cracks between the keys. He swallowed audibly.

“I’ve found other articles,” Cas admitted, his voice low. “Articles about mass grave sites being laid out globally for the ‘people in suits’,” Cas air-quoted bitterly, “who… didn’t make it.”

“Why would they die?” Dean breathed. Castiel’s face was so close, it didn’t matter that Dean spoke so quietly.

“Their wings,” Castiel replied simply.

“What about them?”

Cas turned to Dean, eyes weary. “Imagine someone tore your arms from your body. You would probably live, if treated in time. But if no one could help you…” He trailed off, pausing to exhale heavily. “Being injured, it’s unlikely they had enough grace, if any, to heal themselves alone.”

Dean recoiled. “Jesus.”

The air in the room felt thin, the weight of understanding pressing down on them. Dean was beginning to realise how traumatic this fall had been for Cas, and how horrific this must have been for the angels. For the first time, Dean felt truly sorry for the displaced angels.

He remembered with a flash, images on the Walmart TV screens, of angels being dragged onto the foreign seashores by groups of strangers, blood pouring from their backs. He remembered cowering at the base of the Impala in front of the rickety church for the trials, watching an angel torpedo towards the earth and crash into the water. Dean wondered, with a guilty twist in his stomach, if that particular angel had drowned. He wondered if he could have saved him.

Dean detected a quiver in Cas’ voice as he carried on, his hands dropping to his lap. ”Anyway, the authorities can’t identify them due to lack of dental records. They can’t find any friend or family members to mark the graves. All the tombstones are blank.”

“God… Cas, I’m so sorry,” Dean whispered, staring at Cas’ profile, watching tears gather on his lashline, making his eyes a brilliant, icy blue. Cas’ stubbly chin crumpled. Dean reached for the hand between Cas’ legs and intertwined their fingers. Cas squeezed back hard.

Cas’ other hand reached up and slid his finger across the trackpad. Dean turned to look at the screen in time to see Cas select an open tab. The page loaded quickly and Dean watched in horror as Cas scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled down, through pictures upon pictures of the human faces of the angels, dead and lifeless.

“There are hundreds of them, thousands,” Castiel whispered tightly, his voice breaking. “And this is just the U.S government’s database. Japan, England, India... Canada, Brazil… they all have their own databases. Other countries are beginning to compile images as well. Governments are actively seeking the public’s help to identify these people.”

Pictures kept sliding up the screen, rows and rows of thumbnails seeming never-ending. Dean wanted to look away, but felt frozen.

Castiel’s hand continued to swipe the trackpad.

He was so quiet that Dean didn’t realise Cas was crying until a warm teardrop splashed down onto their intertwined fingers, hands still gripping each other in between Cas’ legs.

“Hey,” Dean said softly, reaching up with his free hand to stop Cas’ scrolling. “Stop. Stop looking at this crap. That’s enough.”

Cas’ hand slipped off the laptop and pressed against his mouth, his eyes shutting tight, thick tears slipping over his cheekbones and tumbling over his fingers.

At the first anguished choked gasp that sounded like it was torn from the deep recesses of Cas’ grief, Dean surged up and threw his arms around his best friend. Arms were thrown around him in return and the two men embraced each other tightly.

Cas wept against Dean’s neck, his tears soaking Dean’s collar. The Winchester cradled the back of his head and rocked them both gently. He became very aware of how warm Cas felt in his arms.

He turned his face slightly towards Cas’, his own eyes stinging. Their faces pressed together, temples brushing and stubble scratching gently.

Castiel pulled away sooner than Dean would have thought, shaking his head and pulling the collar of his t-shirt over his face, dragging it back down over cheeks, wiping his tears. He rubbed at his eyes with his wrists and scrubbed his face with his hands, exhaling slowly through parted lips.

Dean’s hands lingered on Cas’ body, one resting on his side, the other resting on his knee. Heat radiated through the material and Dean felt an odd tugging of concern.

Dean reached up and pressed a hand to Cas’ forehead once Cas had lowered his hands to his lap. Cas’ eyes slid closed under his touch.

 _He feels feverish. Like, too warm,_ Dean thought, but was interrupted from verbally expressing his concern when Cas’ eyes opened and one of his hands came forward to rest on Dean’s thigh.

“I’m sorry,” Cas apologized and Dean’ laughed bitterly. His hand on Cas’ forehead slipped down to his lap.

“Don’t be,” he replied. “I… can’t imagine what it feels like to see their faces like that.”

Cas bowed his head, staring down at their legs locked together. He tugged on a bundle of threads hanging on the edge of a rip in Dean’s jeans.

“I don’t even know who they are,” he whispered. His throat sounded shredded, his words rasped. “I don’t know their true human faces. We never had our own bodies, or even genders—only vessels. I… I can’t recognize them without my grace.”

Dean and Cas sat very still together, close, their faces only inches apart. Cas raised his head slowly and their eyes met, sharing a moment of pain. Dean’s head spun, overwhelmed with the sheer amount of _shit_ that was being piled on Cas. He was beginning to understand the depression, the isolation in his room, the angry outbursts. He was beginning to really, truly understand the passion and rage Cas harboured, the drive he had to want to save his brothers and sisters…

When Cas’ hand came up, hot and damp, and pressed against the side of Dean’s face, Dean was surprised with the words that came out.

“Dean, do you wish I fell with them?” Cas breathed.

Dean blinked, his eyes wide, his eyebrows furrowing. “W-what? Why would I want that?”

“I would have had my very own body,” Castiel continued, his voice strange suddenly. Dean couldn’t place it. “Who knows what form it would have come in? I could have been different. I would have been more… me.”

“Cas,” Dean murmured, confused, his eyes darting over Cas’ features, “you _are_ you.”

Cas smiled, but it only broke Dean’s heart.

“Maybe I might have been female,” Castiel murmured. He exhaled a trembling breath, his eyes watering again. “My body, my ‘grace to flesh’, my own form... We’ll never know now.”

Dean stared at Castiel, confusion slowly morphing into the shadow of understanding… he knew where Cas was going with this and he couldn’t fucking believe it. He felt dizzy and nauseous, not ready for this conversation.

“It would have made this easier for you,” said Cas.

_This._

Dean was frozen. His gaze was locked with Castiel’s, his eyes wide.

He couldn’t believe this was happening. Neither of them had ever verbally acknowledged the _thing_ between them and suddenly there was Cas, talking about it like it was something they both haven’t been actively been pretending to ignore.

“No,” Dean choked, the word tumbling from his lips before he could control it. “ _No_ , Cas.”

Cas’ little smile wavered for a moment, but ultimately stayed carved on his lips. With a subtle flutter of his lashes, something changed in his eyes, something... extinguished.

Dean’s gaze drifted over Cas’ shoulder, distracted against his will by sudden movement in the distance.

“You don’t have to lie,” Cas whispered genuinely, tilting his head so that a brown lock of hair fell to his forehead. As Dean leaned slowly to look over Cas’ shoulder, Cas stared at him still, murmuring almost inaudibly, “I know you don’t want me like this.”

Dean jumped to his feet and stumbled back, breaking all physical contact with Cas. His chair made an awful noise as its feet scratched across the floor.

Sam and Kevin stood in the open door frame between the war room and the library, gaping at Dean and Cas. Kevin gripped the dark magic text in his hand and Sam held a fist full of loose paper sheets at his side.

Dean stared at Kevin and Sam, his eyes wide, his mouth parted. He panted softly. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

They stared back at him and Cas, eyes darting from Dean to Cas, whose eyes were still red, his mouth pressed into a thin line. His neck was flushed.

“Dean,” Sam clipped, eyes swiveling to his brother, the expression in them was hard. “We need to speak with you.” His eyes flashed over to Cas. “... Alone.”

Dean disappeared, following Sam and Kevin, leaving Castiel sitting in the library, feeling hot and upset.

As Kevin disappeared into the hallway, the whispers in Castiel’s head (“ _Get up. Take it from him. Open it. Open it. Open it. Read it—”)_ from the book ended abruptly.

Castiel turned away from the doorframe, fighting back a strong wave of anxious nausea.

He couldn’t believe it. He’d done it. He’d brought up the vessel thing, finally.

Castiel had always wondered if the emotional connection between he and Dean would have evolved into a relationship if he had taken a female vessel, if Dean would have wanted him in the same way he wanted Dean.

In the past—in a cycle that was so frequent it was almost endless—Castiel had wondered if his vessel had been female all along, if Dean would have kissed _him_ instead of Anna, if he would have fallen to his knees and begged Castiel to stay on earth after the apocalypse, if he would have followed him into the water when the leviathans had exited his vessel. Maybe he would have tried to save him from drowning, or at least tried to recover his body.

He had wondered if maybe, all those times he had been tempted to kiss him, like in Zachariah’s green room, up against the wall, or in that alleyway (“ _I did all of this, for you”)_ , if Dean might have kissed back.

Maybe Dean would have kissed him first, loved him back, maybe he would have wanted him to stay. Maybe Dean would have tried harder to save him. Maybe Dean would listen to him once in a while.

Maybe instead of taking him to a den of iniquity and sliding Chastity a fifty dollar bill, Dean might have kept the money and would have personally tended to Castiel’s inexperience. _Her_ inexperience.

Maybe he would have been nicer to her, his hands gentle, his tone even gentler… Maybe on their last night on earth, instead of propositioning Jo, Dean might have propositioned Castiel instead. Maybe he would have taken this Castiel on the swing on Bobby’s porch, or upstairs in his room, maybe he would have made love to her in the Impala like he did to Anna—

But it was too late for that now. It was all too late.

Yes, Dean’s hands were more eager to touch him lately and he did stand closer, too close. Even without his powers, Castiel knew Dean’s heartbeat picked up when they shared a more intimate moment, when they stared too long or stood too close. He could tell because he had rebuilt Dean, he knew when his breath hitched silently and his chest rose and fell in a quick but subtle way, that his heart was beating faster…

But Castiel wasn’t stupid. His vessel held Dean back, it limited their… _bond_ to a merely emotional capacity. Dean would never pursue his feelings.

Castiel pulled up the collar of his t-shirt again, wiping his face. He cleared his throat and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. His chest was tight, his stomach succumbing to anxiety, twisting and clenching.

He turned to shut the laptop closed and was again forced to face the dead, empty faces of his brothers and sisters, their corpses photographed crudely from the neck-up. Nameless, grey, hollow shells—rows and rows of pictures, meaningless to Castiel. No grace hummed inside him as he stared at the images. No twinge of recognition. _I’m so sorry, I don’t know who you are,_ he thought to himself, tormented. _But I promise, I’ll find out. I’ll do anything. I’ll save the rest of us who are still able to be saved._

Slowly, he lowered the laptop screen, pressing a single finger down to close it softly with a click. He felt like he had buried them.

Castiel looked down the narrow library again, towards the corridor to their quarters where Dean, Sam, and Kevin were no doubt talking about him.

_“Dean, we need to talk. Alone.”_

Sam had looked at Castiel strangely, like he’d done something wrong. _Who knows,_ a sick little voice in his mind jeered, _you probably have. You always get everything wrong._

Castiel stood, feeling his backache where the tattoo was healing, and where the cuts and slices were beginning to knit together into scars. He felt anxious sweat slick on his forehead and under his arms. Alone in the big, empty library, he felt suddenly very claustrophobic.

Against his will or control, he remembered Dean’s face as he shot up and backed away from him ( _“You don’t have to lie. I know you don’t want me like this”)_ , looking shell-shocked, mortified, leaving a horrible feeling in Castiel’s chest that made him feel like choking. Dean must think he was disgusting, that Castiel crossed a line by verbally acknowledging this… thing between them.

He needed to get out of this godforsaken bunker. He couldn’t stay inside when Dean was disgusted by him, Sam and Kevin were suddenly angry at him, and the very presence of that book was making him feel insane.

His feet moved quickly and determinedly as he sought out his room and changed his clothing, wearing comfortable black loose pants and tugging on his running shoes. He pulled a grey t-shirt over his head.

He just wanted to feel peaceful. He needed to clear his head. He couldn’t think clearly in this bunker.

Castiel turned to leave his room, bursting with desperation to escape the confines of the bunker for even just an hour. He stopped at the doorway and turned back, picking up his phone and looking at it. 10:15PM. Then his eyes focused on a messy pile of white cords on his bed, the earbuds Sam had given him.

 _“I know music helps me when I’m… not feeling myself…”_ Sam had said.

A minute later, Castiel twisted the earbuds into his ears and swept out of the room.

“Did Crowley figure out what exact book you were asking about?”

“Nope,” Kevin replied casually, “he had no idea. So we’re all good. He was pretty interested to know where we found such old Enochian though.”

Dean shot him a disapproving look. “I don’t care what Crowley thinks is interesting, I care about what the books says.”

The three men turned into the hallway with their quarters. Dean looked over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed. His stomach flinched, guilty about leaving Cas sitting there alone, knowing the weight that was probably on his shoulders concerning his brothers and sisters and also… the thing…

_“Maybe I might have been female… It would have made this easier for you.”_

Dean snapped his head forward, his jaw clenching. _Focus, Dean._

They crowded into Sam’s bedroom again, this time doing a double check of the corridor to make sure they were alone. Dean closed the door gingerly behind them so it shut with a quiet click. He turned to Sam and Kevin, who were opening the creepy-murder-book and sliding open dusty looking scrolls, holding them open with makeshift paperweights. Dean walked over to them and the three men surveyed the papers.

“So what am I looking at? Where did you get these scrolls?” asked Dean, waving his hand at the decrepit pieces of parchment marked with scratchy, rushed writing, all blotted and ink-smeared in certain areas.

Sitting down in his desk chair, Sam brushed dust off one of the scrolls. “While Kevin was with Crowley, I went back down into that dark magic storage ro—”

“Sam!”

“Oh, come on, Dean! We had to find out more about this book!” Sam snapped, shooting his brother an angry bitch-face over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Dean growled, “but going into the room where someone was burnt on the cross against the back wall and Cas went all Babadook isn’t really something I want you guys doing on your own.”

Sam waved a hand at him dismissively. “Whatever, dude. Anyway, that book fell out of a bag, right? Well, so did a bunch of scrolls. I went back down there to find out what I could about the book and found these scrolls all over the ground.”

“Lucky that he did, too,” Kevin murmured, leaning on the desk over the lamp, looking extra tired with the light hitting only the high points of his face and deepening the bags under his eyes. “They’re notes written by the Men of Letters, presumably, about the book.”

Dean’s eyes widened a bit and he looked down at Sam to confirm this new piece of information. Sam nodded gravely.

“And?” Dean urged. “What do they say?”

“It’s pretty messed up,” Sam murmured.

Castiel closed the door to the bunker as carefully as he could, not wanting to be followed or bothered. If they were still locked in Sam’s room like they had been for most of the day, they wouldn’t even notice he was gone. But still, he didn’t want to risk being mother-henned back into the bunker by Dean and so he ducked out almost silently.

The cool air was welcome against his skin and into his lungs, making him feel like he might actually cool down and the heat that was radiating from the sick feeling in his stomach would actually pass.

The night was cool and damp, a fog hanging densely in the street, curling over the ground which was dark and shiny from rain earlier in the evening. It smelt like worms, he observed vaguely. Worms, dew, and night time.

Castiel looked left and right down the street, sad to see the little lights from the factories through the trees were few in number. It was Saturday, he remembered. Many of those factories were closed.

Left would take him down the hill and down the winding service road, towards the industrial buildings and lots filled with construction garbage piled up high, and towards abandoned-looking auto-body shops with broken cars lying decrepit on the property lines.

Right would take him deeper into the forest, where the trees would become denser and the world would fade away, becoming quiet. Sam always took him this way in the mornings. _It’s just you, the forest, and the trees… kinda nice, huh?_ Sam’s voice said in his head, an echo of one of the many encouraging things the young Winchester had said to him over the course of their runs together.

He turned right, walking along the side of the road, his running shoes becoming muddy as his feet squelched over damp grass and wet dirt.

The heat inside him seemed to be vapourizing away, lifting off his skin like steam. The anxiety in his stomach wasn’t completely gone, but with every inhale of moist post-rain night air, he did feel more pure, lighter.

Castiel pressed play on the playlist Sam had given him, not caring what came on. Apparently, it was on ‘shuffle’, whatever that meant. He twisted the other earbud into his ear and pushed his body into a jog. A soft, cheerful song played in Castiel’s ears, a women crooning gently to him. Her voice was kind. The beat picked up and so did Cas’ pace.

 

“So like, what? Did they leave us instructions or translations?” asked Dean bluntly. Then he groaned, “Don’t tell me the translations were there the entire time and we didn’t even think to check?”

Kevin laughed, and it sounded a bit neurotic. “Yeah, right. I wish.”

“No,” Sam explained quietly, tapping his finger on one of the scrolls. “They aren’t… Well, I mean, there isn’t much direction in this writing, it’s not like the other Men of Letters’ writing which was organized and categorized. This one is scrambled and kind of frantic.”

Kevin snorted and looked between the two brothers, smiling sheepishly, “I dunno, I thought it kinda looked like my tablet notes.”

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, then they both laughed darkly. “Yeah,” Dean agreed. “So... scrambled and frantic.”

Kevin scowled at Dean, but didn’t dispute it. He turned back to Sam, and Dean followed suit, sitting on the corner of the desk, following his brother’s finger as it dragged along the words on the pages.

Dean didn’t even know how Sam knew where to start, if he did at all. There were words everywhere, big and small, neat then rushed. Some were in all capital letters in the margins, while others were cramped and small, trying to fit the page. Words were scribbled out or underlined harshly, sometimes so harshly they seemed to cut through the page.

Sam sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead. “It reads like the writing of a madman. It’s all over the place. Nothing is really clear, but what I can read sounds messed up.” He cleared his throat then read from the page out loud. “ _Don’t open it. Don’t read from the book. Don’t read the incantation. PAGE 394 - DO NOT READ. It will come if you read from the book. It will take the purest—it devours purity. It will twist your mind. DO NOT READ IT. It took her from us. It took her and we’ll never get her back. She read it. She said yes.”_

Sam picked up another scroll, this one with powdery black and grey smudges all over it along the edges, the top corner looked singed. The page was haunting. It made Dean’s feel uneasy, the hairs on his arms standing on end and his stomach feeling like it was trying to make itself look small, to hide.

Big, frantic words were sliced across the page, ink blots all around them, and a familiar browny-red substance splashed sparsely over a corner.

“ _DON’T SAY YES. DON’T LET IT IN. If you let it in, it will take, it will corrupt. It will kill.”_

The female’s voice drifted away, the beats from the song disappearing with the soft strum of her guitar. Castiel ran in silence for a moment, hyper-aware of his breathing, the wheezing pull of air into his lungs and the dry sound of his breath rasping back out into the world.

He was grateful for the start of the next song, of the stoic drawl from a male vocalist.

 _Run… from me, darlin’_ , the voice crooned sweetly. Castiel felt drawn to the sound of the man’s voice. He reached into his pocket and turned up the volume, drowning out the sound of his own breathing.

_Run, my good wife._

_Run... from me, darlin,_

_You better run for your life...”_

Castiel had only been running for few minutes, but he fell into a steady rhythm, a good rhythm and waited for endorphins to flood his system. It was always around the next bend that the calm, focused feeling took over completely, even when he was with Sam. Their chatter usually quieted by then and they exercised in silence, listening to music or the sound of their feet clap down on pavement.

Tonight was different.

He usually felt a relief the farther that he went from the bunker, knowing that the steady pace of running would take his mind away from the anxiety, frustration, and claustrophobia that every part of the bunker encompassed for him now. His body would usually fight back against the exercise, would try to tire or ache. Sam told him that was normal; that was the point. Sam was right; it was the point, and it was also a welcome distraction, something else he could focus on that was more visceral.

_“Run... from me, baby,_

_Run, my good wife,_

_Run... from me, baby,_

_You better run for your life…”_

However, as he ran farther from the bunker, he was losing the feeling of initial calm he’d felt when inhaling the night air at the door and during his walk. That infernal, annoying, all-consuming heat was returning, starting in a small speck inside of his chest and spreading with a slow, eating creep.

Castiel pushed harder and ignored the subtle changes in the wind. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember the breathing Sam had taught him; in through the nose, out through the mouth. Castiel focused on the music, hoping the pacing, as it picked up, could distract him further.

_“Each time I see you_

_I contemplate_

_What I love most of all_

_Your swinging gait...”_

 

_“Don’t let it. Kill it or it will take,”_ Sam read, his voice barely a breath. Dean and Kevin sat in silence, not realising they were holding their breath.

_“Kill it before it takes you too.”_

Castiel felt hot, sweat beading up at his temples. He swallowed hard and kept going, not noticing the fog thicken. A raindrop, heavy and warm, landed on his temple, rolling down his face, mingling with the fresh sheen of sweat. His back hurt, the skin feeling increasingly itchy and painful where he had stitches. The wind grew louder and was sounding more like words, trying to drown out the lyrics of the song...

Dean and Kevin were piled closely near the desk now, both leaning over and scanning all the scrolls pointedly, their stances stiff and eyes alert.

“ _It took her,”_ Dean read, picking up on another page as the one Sam was reading became intelligible, illegible. “ _It took her, and then she took David. One. Andrew. Two. Then three and four; Victoria and Jack. But we knew what we had to do. She wasn’t her anymore. I will love her for the rest of my life and I will remember her for all my years until I die. But she had to be handled. We had to fix this. We burned her.”_

Rain poured now, almost immediately, hammering down onto the pavement and treetops, thick dollops rolling off the trees and landing on Castiel. His shoulders and the tops of his pant legs quickly grew wet and turned dark as they became drenched.

Castiel shook his head as strange visions flashed behind his eyelids as he blinked away the rain—flashing visions of a girl on fire, screaming. He skidded to a stop as he heard monster roars and a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream. Cas squeezed his eyes shut—the girl’s skin was peeling off, though her lips twisted into a wicked grin.

Dean pulled the parchment into his lap, then up to his face so he could make out the letters. They were so slanted, so scratchy that he was suddenly having trouble reading the cursive. Slowly his eyes made their way over to the margins. Some notes had been circled;

“ _WAYS TO KILL:_

_CUT OFF HEAD_

_BURY IT ALIVE_

_BURN IT ALIVE”_

Dean paused, eyes drifting to large, deliberate letters on the bottom of the parchment.

“ _We will all die,”_ he recited. _“It cannot rise.”_

Then again: _“We burned her.”_

“This is so fucked up,” Dean muttered, grasping at another piece of parchment as Sam flipped his over. Kevin had a third and was shaking his head at it. “This situation is worse than we thought. Sam, what’s page 394?”

Sam grabbed the book and flipped through the thick, grungy pages. He grimaced and stopped on the page, letting it sit open.

“Fuck.”

The visions stopped abruptly and Castiel was doubled over, his hands gripping his knees, his hair flopping in front of his eyes, drenched. The rain was coming down worse. His hair was plastered to his head, curling at his forehead and around his ears, the strands dripping all over him.

Cas panted now, swallowing raindrops as they plummeted down his face, curling around his lips and falling on his tongue. They were warm, no—hot, and it made him feel sick.

The rain was thunderous, easily audible over the music now, which was so quiet in comparison that Cas had forgotten about it. He could hear the whispers clearly now, loud and grasping at him. They were frantic, panicked… angry.

_“Open it. Read it. Quickly. Read it! Read it! Read it!”_

He swayed on his feet, the rain soaking his clothing. He ripped the earbuds out and pressed his hands to his ears, but to his horror, with the sound of pounding rain blocked, the nasally, hissed whispers were louder.

“ _Open it. Come back to me. Save them. Save your brothers. Save your sisters. I’ll help you. We can save them together. It’s in the book… READ IT!”_

The shriek echoed in Castiel’s head so loudly it sent a shocking pain through his skull that fizzled hot, then turned freezing as it shot down his spine. Out in the far distance, up in the road ahead, under the flash of lightning, Cas saw a dark, tall figure emerge from the woods slowly.

It stopped in the middle of the road.

It turned to face Castiel.

Page 394 displayed images of rotted, mauled hell creatures pulling themselves out of the earth, their contorted claws ripping wings from angels.

“Page 394… of course. Of course Cas would read the one fucking page—” Dean began to growl, but their power flicked for a second and they heard a loud crash of thunder from above ground. The boys exchanged looks and the air took an even more ominous turn.

“Why do I feel like we really didn’t need this shit on top of everything else right now?”

Sam nodded, seemingly in agreement. He dragged his hand over the page. “Yeah, this was the page we translated.”

“Did it tell you anything new?”

“Well, I found these when Kevin was getting the translations from Crowley, so we haven’t had time to completely translate everything and piece it together, but the page essentially evokes _something_ ,” Sam explained.

“See?” Kevin said, picking the most inappropriate time to confirm his earlier assessment; “I told you most of it was run-of-the-mill oogly-boogly satanic ritual stuff.”

“Shut up, Kevin,” Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. “What else does it say, Sam?”

With that, Sam sighed heavily. Dean knew that didn’t mean good news was coming.

“It evokes some kind of creature or spirit or something? I can’t pin it down yet without sitting down and slotting all the research together, but whatever it is, it has to do with ‘souls’... or ‘spirits’? The rest roughly translates to ‘reap souls and break the barriers between Heaven and Hell…something-something, ‘swallow for him’—Oh, quit it, Dean. Real mature. And it finishes up with something-something ‘will be mine.’”

“We’re really good at translating,” Kevin said glumly.

“Bad translations or good translations, it doesn’t matter; they’re translations and it’s more than we had a couple days ago,” said Sam with a frustrated gesture of his hands. “Cas read from the page, so either way we have something to worry about.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the pressure of a nasty headache lurking behind his eyes. He gave his head a little shake and then picked up a scroll.

“Let’s dig into these some more, see if there’s anything that will help.”

Castiel wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t an angel anymore. He wasn’t about to go run right towards a…what would Dean call it... “creepy” dark figure that just dragged itself out of the woods in a rainstorm, in the middle of the night.

Castiel spun in the opposite direction from the figure and ran. In his head, even with the headphones flapping around his neck, Castiel heard the song from before playing; _Run... Run... Run…_

He was running as fast as he could back to the bunker. He had to get back. His breath was ragged, coming out so hard and fast that his throat felt like it was on fire. Actually, all of his insides felt like they were on fire. The heat from that little spark earlier was spreading, making him feel like he was boiling, like his insides were melting. Hot raindrops ran over his skin, making him feel so tired that his eyes wanted to roll back, and his muscles wanted to give up.

Twenty feet from the bunker, Castiel came to a skidding stop, throwing his arms out so that he didn’t fall. Swallowing gasps that made his lungs burn, Castiel turned around, daring to look back. There was nothing… Nothing was chasing him.

But the voices were cacophonous and echoing in his mind now, and they had quickly become an all-encompassing fury, a spitting rage that once again had Castiel crushing his hands against his ears, whimpering in between horribly gasps for air, choking on rainwater—

_“OPEN IT. OPEN IT. OPEN IT. OPEN-IT-OPEN-IT-OPEN-IT-OPEN—”_

Sitting on Sam’s bed, Dean aimed the flash on his phone at the small lettering in the margins. A lot of it was the same; _‘it will take’, ‘we’re all going to die’,_ or some other variations of equally macabre stuff that made Dean’s gag reflex act up a bit, especially when he had to scrape dried blood off the words to read them more clearly.

Another crash of thunder from above ground had Sam and Kevin mumbling to each other, their tones worried. Dean continued to read his scroll. He almost gave up, but then saw a scratched out bit on the bottom. As much as he squinted, he couldn’t read it.

That was… until he glanced at the bright light coming from his phone. With a realization, Dean held the light up to the parchment, immediately impressed with himself when the words, carved in capital letters, showed through the paper.

“Plapli. Aabco. Torzv,” he muttered. “The fuck does that mean?”

_“Plapli. Aabco. Torzv.”_

Castiel dropped to his knees in the road. Abruptly, he vomited onto the tarmac, retching terribly, gasping for air.

The whispers were deafening, cutting out the sound of thunder and rain. Lighting cracked, thunderous and deafening, somewhere nearby.

_“PLAPLI, AABCO, TORZV. RISE. IT HAS ALMOST BEGUN. IT HAS TO BE OPENED, IT HAS TO BE READ. **READ IT. IT MUST BE YOU.** ”_

Castiel vomited again. He felt like he was drowning, like he’d choke. His heart hammered as he retched, his hands clawing at his stomach and chest, like his fingers nails could dig holes into his lungs for breath—

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed in a panic, snatching the scroll from his older brother. Sam’s eyes were wide, his mouth dropped open in a gape. “Are you nuts? Don’t read random languages from the creepy scrolls!”

Dean blinked. Duh, he shouldn't have read from it. He didn’t know what he was thinking. Ironic that he’d bitched at Cas for doing the same thing only days ago.

“Shit, you’re right,” Dean agreed, wincing as the headache behind his eyes got worse. “I… I’m sorry, Sam. I—”

Their lights flickered on and off for a worryingly long moment, then stayed on. The three boys stared at each other, their faces etched with concern.

Dean got to his feet and crossed the room, wrenching the door open. Sam lurched to his feet and grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to turn around.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked, his brows furrowed and lips drawn down into a frown.

“I’m gonna check on Cas,” Dean replied, gently tugging his arm away. “If the power is gonna go out, I want all of us together. Hide that all that shit and meet me in the war room.”

With a dreadful, painful wheezing gasp, Castiel finally stopped vomiting. A string of blood and bile dripped into the rushing of water over his hands as rain streamed down the road, and down the hill, washing away the mess. He spit into the water, and pulled his heavy head up, hoping to seek some comfort in the fact that at least he was only about twenty feet from the bunker door. He could so close…

What Castiel saw caused him to freeze in horror.

The figure from before stood atop the steps down to the bunker. Now, on his hands and knees in front of the creature, near enough to see, he realised it wasn’t a creature at all. It was a man, covered from head to toe in blood and bits of human flesh. The only other thing visible was its dark head of messy hair, wide white eyes, and a wide, frightening, sinister grin of excitement stretching its lips. In its hand was a long, wide blade. Its breath was thin and trembling, it’s body shaking with excitement, with unadulterated glee. It made Castiel’s blood run cold.

In a twisted gesture of camaraderie, the figure waved at Castiel. Without breaking eye contact, the man slowly turned and pointed to the bunker door with a long, twisted, gruesome looking finger that was almost too long to be human.

“No!” Cas screamed, but a roaring crack of thunder overruled him. The man laughed—it was a dreadful, heaving, thrilling sound. It made Castiel both want to run and also fight, though his limbs felt numb. He felt glued in place.

“ _No!_ ” Cas screamed again when the man disappeared down the steps to the bunker, a long blade hanging from its hand, the steel flashing as lightning crashed through clouds above them.

The heavy bunker door opened, then slowly closed behind the creature, and only when the steel doors clunked shut, did all power return to Castiel’s body. He surged up to his feet and ran to the door, his aching muscles screaming. He nearly fell down the stairs when the bunker door opened again, just as he was stumbling down the cement steps.

Dean stepped out into the heavy rain, just in time to throw an arm around Castiel’s waist and stop him from go careening through the bunker doors and down the iron steps.

“Jesus!” Dean wheezed as Castiel’s trajectory was impeded only by Dean’s body, knocking the wind out of him. Sam and Kevin were right behind him, staring at Castiel through wide, fearful eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean cried out, blinking and wincing as rain pelted his face and soaked his hair. He was staring down at Castiel. “Were…were you out for a _run_?”

“Where’s the man?” Castiel gasped, his wide eyes searching everyone's faces.

“What are you talking ab—” Sam began, but Castiel cut him off, shoving Dean’s arms away, pushing past him into the bunker.

“The man!” he repeated, his teeth chattering. He pushed through the second door into the bunker and leaned over the railing, wide wild eyes darting around the war room, searching for the sinister man. “He’s in h-here, I saw him come in from outside!”

“Someone’s in here?” Kevin asked, his voice tight and scared. “When?”

“Just now!” Castiel cried, squeezing in between Kevin and Sam, his feet rushing down the steps. “Didn’t you see him?”

His legs, trembling so hard from exertion, gave out on the steps. Sam’s strong arm wrapped around his waist, catching Castiel before he tipped headfirst down the stairs. The two men clumsily caught themselves on the railing, their butts hitting the steps hard. Castiel felt a sharp snapping, ripping feeling on his back and cried out.

Kevin and Dean rushed down the stairs beside them, stepping over Sam’s legs. Kevin barrelling down the steps while Dean crouched down in front of Castiel, his hands on his arm and knee.

Dean nodded at his brother over Castiel’s shoulder, words passing unspoken between them. Sam shifted from behind Castiel and swept down the steps, tugging a gun out from the back of his jeans, clicking the safety off and disappearing through into the corridors by the kitchen, head snapping around the corner. His eyes looking around wildly for their mystery intruder.

“Kevin, you hide the tablets,” Dean ordered, eyes still locked on Castiel’s white, shocked face. “Then you lock yourself in your room. Don’t come out until we’re all clear.”

Dean slid his hand up, clapping it to Castiel’s cheek. “Cas,” he said firmly, “you with me, man?”

“He has a blade, Dean. A… a knife. T-tell Sam,” Castiel rasped, his voice shaking with an uncontrollable tremor as his teeth chattered and his exhausted limbs trembled. Castiel heard his own voice go on, though he felt disconnected with fear, like he was watching himself from a distance.

Dean turned his head, eyes scanning the war room and library. His jaw clenched and his teeth were gritted together. “Fuck,” he spat under his breath. Then as a warning to Sam and Kevin, Dean bellowed, “Heads up, Sam! Intruder has a weapon!”

Dean yanked his own gun from the back of his jeans and slid his arm around Castiel’s ribs, tugging him to his feet. They both stumbled down the stairs, Dean trying to hold Castiel upright while Castiel’s knees buckled, his legs aching and his back wracked with terrible radiating pains.

With a struggle, Dean kicked open the door to Castiel’s room. They lumbered in and Castiel broke free, lowering himself onto his bed, sitting on the edge, his legs shaking so aggressively that the headboard of his bed shuddered against the wall.

Dean checked the chamber of his gun, then snapped it back into place, looking at Castiel with a mixture of determination and worry. “Hang in there, Cas. I’ll be back, I’m just gonna do a sweep of the place with Sam.”

Dean rushed out of the room, his gun snug in between his palms, pointed forward at his eye level. Just a bit down the hallway, Castiel heard Dean checking in on Kevin in his room.

Castiel’s fists gripped the edge of the mattress at his side, his knuckles white. He tilted his head back, his lungs struggling for air as he panted, sweat tumbling down his face and neck, soaking his back and chest. Still drenched from the rain, his hair dripped warm rainwater onto his clothing.

He was fighting off an onslaught of physical and emotional sensations. The whispers were still there, still loud in his head, but talking over each other, their angry rasps and sneers overlapping, sounding like hundreds of snakes hissing.

Though he hadn’t run for long or for very far, his entire body felt broken and spent, his legs so powerless and sluggish he worried that they were broken somehow. The heat… that sweltering heat was back, eating at him, devouring his insides, making it hard to think, filling his head with fog.

And the fear. The fear was disturbing and all-encompassing. He felt fear like he had never experienced, or even known how to experience as an angel. It seemed to reach into him and pull at his insides, twisting them and making him feel like he couldn’t breathe, like he was choking—

Vaguely, he felt himself lean sideways, one side of his body heavy like lead. Cas threw his arm out to catch himself as he slowly slipped out of consciousness, the whispers fading away. His arm gave out and Castiel collapsed onto the bed with a rattling sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My initial inspiration for doing this 'inspired by' fic was the scene in the movie where Eric reads from the book. The scene jumps from location to location (Eric reads, Mia pace outside, Eric reads again, Mia is growing more restless and neurotic etc.) It was so cool and done so well. This chapter was the first one I aimed to write once the idea struck.


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel was shocked back into consciousness when his heavy bedroom door thudded back against the wall, blown open by a cold gust of air. For a surreal, suspended moment in time where the sudden presence of wind in their underground bunker didn’t surprise him, the cool air against his hot skin was welcome.

His eyes slid open, his pupils constricting as he realised his room was in complete darkness, the only light was coming from the corridor, in cycling beams of red light. Confused and feverish, Castiel stared out into the hallway. He located the source of red light, noticing for the first time that there were rectangular light bulbs along the top of the hallway walls.

He felt uneasy in the complete silence. Pushing himself up on his elbow, Castiel reached over and yanked on the chain dangling down from his bedside lamp, but nothing happened. The power was out, he realised. He vaguely remembered Kevin yelping something about backup generators and lockdowns when they’d returned from the fall of angels.

His feet slid off the mattress and met with the floor as he stood, legs shaky still but able to hold him up. Without any of the usual lights or power on, the bunker was eerily quiet, the sound of Castiel’s shallow breathing and padding of his feet on the floor was loud in contrast. Slowly, Castiel walked through the darkness, the hairs on his arms standing, and peered out into the hallway, gripping his doorframe. “Sam?” Castiel called out, eyes narrowed as he tried to spot any movement in the general direction of Sam’s room, even though that end of the hallway was pitch back, swallowed in shadow.

“Dean?”

Nothing happened.

No doors opened.

No one replied back.

At least not right away.

 _“... Castiel,"_ someone said, the voice straight from the depths of Hell. It was the sound of rot and decay, of sinister whispers and deep reverberating echoes, the voices of little children and ancient creatures speaking all at once.

Castiel turned around quickly, his hand flexing back for a split-second, momentarily confusing him when an angel blade didn’t fall into his palm. Then he realised, staring at his bed, that his blade was under his pillow. As red light passed over the room and then disappeared, the bed was swallowed by shadows.

His feet moved forward slowly, stepping cautiously into the darkness of his room, inching towards the foot of his bed. Red light swept past him again.

He froze when there was movement under his covers. Sheets dragged across his bed slowly towards the middle, towards a dark spot that appeared and grew wider quickly. Castiel swallowed hard and continued stepping towards the end of the bed, the base of the bedframe hitting his knees. Through wide eyes, he watched as a hole opened in the middle of the mattress, pulling all of his bedclothes inside like quicksand. Red light flashed past him, leaving him momentarily in the dark, just long enough for him to swallow a gasp and shudder. It flashed past him again. The hole grew wider, sheets making a sharp zipping sound as they were pulled into this crater, thick dark sludge oozing up and over the edges of the void.

Castiel was frozen to the spot, revolted as mud poured over the edges of the mattress, dripping down onto the floor. It wasn’t physically possible for a pit of mud to have opened in the center of his bed. It just didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. And yet the room filled with the odour of wet mud, the earthy aroma forcing its way into Castiel’s nose.

As the hole widened, the dripping became pouring, the gunk was rushing onto the floor, spreading across the room.

Again, Castiel tried to step back and he tried to open his mouth to yell for Dean again as thin, sticky mud oozed around his feet, but the words were caught in his throat.

The sickening oozing of mud slowed. His mattress was now completely unrecognizable under a thick layer of shining mud. The surface smoothed out except for the occasional bubble or ripple.

He stood there, breathing shallowly, staring at the still pool. His body turned slowly, ready to run, but the sudden calmness of the scene had him pausing, curiosity getting the better of him.

Castiel reached forward, inexplicably drawn to the mud’s surface in the center of his mattress. His fingers dragging across cool, sticky sludge. Slowly, he turned his palm to observe the substance. His stomach dropped as he rubbed his fingers together, recognizing the consistency. The metallic smell hit his senses, suddenly separate from the earthy smell that lingered above the sludgy void.

“No...” he began to say, but there was suddenly an explosion of noise as a hand burst through the surface of the mud, grasping Castiel’s wrist with long, maimed and contorted claws, slick with mud and blood. The room filled with an earth-shaking roar while Castiel cried out, yanking and tugging at his arm. The hand that gripped him was tugging him in, trying to pull him into the swampy pool.

Castiel panted and viciously yanked backwards, trying to use his weight to pull backwards, but his feet slipped in the slimy mess.

“Let me go!” he snarled, the vice-grip tightening around his wrist, winning the tug of war.

“... _No.”_

Out from the pit, sliding through the surface, rose the man—the one from Castiel’s run, the one with the knife—dripping in blood, his white eyes wide and round, his teeth clenched. His voice—the croaking, reverberating sound that came straight from the depths of Hell—bounced off the walls and amplified within the room.

“ _You’re coming with me!”_ the man shrieked. _“You’re mine, Castiel. Do you hear me?! Your purity is mine.”_

“I—” Castiel tugged at his arm, panting, “—am not—” his feet slipped in the mud and he was jerked forward, his face just inches from the monster’s face. He struggled harder as hot, putrid breath puffed against his face, “— _pure_!”

Castiel was thrown to the floor at the same time that the monster released a shriek that shook the bunker, sending his bedside lamps crashing over the edge of his bedside tables and furniture jumping across the floor. He threw his hands over his head, his elbows and the entire front of his body sinking into an inch of blood and mud, protecting himself from any objects flying through the air.

As soon as the quaking stopped, Castiel clamoured to his feet, stumbling only for a moment when his bare feet skidded through sludge. As he burst out from his bedroom, catapulting himself down the dark hallway, the man—the monster?—bellowing after him, “ _You will come with me, Castiel! You will be mine!”_

Despite the fear that had his hands shaking and his breath coming out in bursts and gasps, Castiel still stopped at Dean’s door, twisting the knob and pounding on the wood.

“Dean!’ Castiel yelled. “Dean, we have to go!”

The door remained shut. He looked down, horrified to see blood rushing out fast from under Dean’s door. Castiel reeled back and pushed himself off the back wall, slamming his shoulder into the Dean’s door, trying to break it down.

“Come on,” he growled, slamming at the door with his shoulder, even kicking at it. Castiel dared look over to his bedroom door and gasped when he was met with the sight of the horrific bloody man-monster crawling out of his room, over mud and sludge, its white eyes turned on Castiel. It raised a long finger, thick blood running off its arms in threads. It pointed at Castiel.

Its shrieks had the bunker quaking again, causing Castiel to lose his footing, though he tried to catch himself against Dean’s door, grasping at the knob for balance. Despite all of the near-debilitating fear that was running through his body, Castiel actually managed to tear his gaze away from the monster as it slowly crept towards him, its arms and legs making horrific squelching noises as it crawled.

Castiel’s fists ached as he pounded at Dean’s door, wanting to save him desperately. He only stopped when blood burst out of the sides like a severed artery. Castiel raised a hand to block his face, and shield himself from the spray. He saw from under his arm, the creature was close… so close… it just had to reach out and grab him…

 _“I already took them. You can’t save him,”_ the monster croaked, its voice reverberating in the hallway, _“You can’t save anyone.”_

Castiel cast one last heartbroken glance at Dean’s door, whispering, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Dean.”

Then he ran.

Castiel ran through the hallways, bursting around corners. He tried to take the most direct route to the war room, but Sam’s bedroom door was burst open, rivers of blood rushing out of his room, cascading and splashing down the hallway. Castiel stared at it, panting, his heart-wrenching. He turned on his heel and took another route.

_“COWARD! YOU LET YOUR FRIENDS DIE. ONCE AGAIN, YOU’VE LET EVERYONE YOU LOVE DOWN! HOW LONG WILL YOU DO THIS, CASTIEL? HOW LONG?”_

The monster’s bellowing echoed through the entire bunker, bouncing off the walls—no matter what wing of the bunker Castiel ran through, the accusing, twisted screams followed him. Castiel pressed his hands to his ears and rounded the corner into the library, intending to run up the stairs when—

Castiel stopped dead in his tracks, his hands falling away from his ears. The screaming and bellowing had stopped. The ground was still. His heaving breaths were loud in the silence of the library. The red beams of light stopped spinning but remained lit, casting the entire room in a dull, red light.

In every chair in the library sat an angel, their wings burnt and scorched, the bone and ligament of their wings visible and raw. Even in the red cast, their faces looked marbled with veining, their skin waxy and dead. The corpses of the angels sat still in the library chairs, their backs straight and eyes locked on each other across the table.

Slowly, every dead face in the room turned to look at Castiel, their necks cracking and popping as their decayed spines snapped to life.

“Castiel,” they all acknowledged in unison, their voices flat and eerie.

Castiel’s eyes swept over every face, taking in their blank expressions, his heart wrenching when he didn’t recognize any of them.

One of the angels, a young girl with golden hair curled up in two ponytails, spoke first. She blinked dully at him, but asked in a broken manner, “Why have you left us, Castiel? It’s so cold under the ground… the worms and beetles eat away at my flesh… it’s so cold…”

“He’s an abandoner,” another angel accused, his eyes staring at Castiel though they almost seemed to look right through him. The eyes were cloudy and grey.

A third angel twisted further in her seat, turning her body towards him. “We’re dead because of you, Castiel. We lie in mass graves, unmarked, and forgotten…because of you. Don’t you wish to save the ones who still live?”

“More will die,” a voice carried through the room. Castiel, eyes darting over every face turned his way, found the source of the voice. A young man, his skin dark and eyes also a dull grey, stared at him, his mouth moving languidly. “How many of us must needlessly die for your mistakes? How many more times will Heaven’s host pay for your stupidity? Fix your mistakes, Castiel. Do what you must to open the gates of Heaven.”

Finally, Castiel found his voice. He swallowed thickly and choked out, “I am trying. Without my grace, it is a struggle. I don’t have powers—”

“But you could,” the little girl said in an odd sing-song voice, “all you must do is read it.”

In a smooth motion, all the angels pointed ahead of them, then twisted in their seats and pointed at the end of the nearest table to Castiel. He followed their motion and found himself staring at the leatherbound book he, Dean, and Sam had found in the dark storage room. It laid open at the edge of the table, on the page he’d last laid eyes on, the same one from that day in the basement.

“The answer to our salvation is right in front of you,” the second angel explained. “If you read from the book, finish the incantation you started, you will find yourself at the disposal of a most ancient power, of magic so magnificent you can open the gates to Heaven, and can give us back our wings.”

Castiel slowly walked forward, his eyes wide as he surveyed the book. Unawares to him, his shaking hands were reaching out for it.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered. “Dean thinks this book is unsafe, that it is wrong…”

As his hands closed around the sides of the book and his eyes dragged over the grotesque image on the adjacent page, he knew Dean was right… yet…

“He always chooses the humans over us,” the little girl whispered, her sing-song voice gone, and replaced with sadness. “I’m going to rot here forever, my grace and flesh just food for insects… No one will ever find me. I will never have a name. I will never rest in peace.”

“Castiel makes the wrong decision. Castiel makes another mistake. Castiel always listens to Dean Winchester,” an angel whispered, a woman sitting close to him. “The story always remains the same.”

Dozens of fingers still pointed at the book in his hands. He looked around the table at their dead faces, their eyes glassy and empty, their voices devoid of hope or faith.

“I implore you, Castiel,” the woman breathed. “I implore you to forget what the human said. What has he ever done but turn you again your own kind? You are being presented with the opportunity to redeem yourself, to save the angels still left to save, to open the gates of Heaven, and to possess enough power to destroy Metatron for his deception.”

Vaguely, he wondered how she knew about Metatron’s deception. Castiel looked up, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Breathing heavily still, he looked into each and every face. His fingers wrapped tightly around the book.

“Is this what you all truly want?” he asked.

There was one uniform nod from the angels.

Castiel looked down at the incantation.

“I don’t understand how,” Castiel whispered, eyes raking the page.

“Just read it,” the closest one urged, getting to her feet.

Castiel’s eyes danced across the page and he licked his lips. Blood and mud from his hands smeared the pages as he ran his fingers over the engraved words. A small voice in his head that sounded like Dean screamed at him not to, that the book was wrong, that it contained evil. But evil or not, if it would give him power to open Heaven… it wouldn’t be the first time darkness had been wielded as a tool for good. He thought of the power of souls he’d collected with Crowley, and thought of the good he managed to do for humanity with that power, even if it was short-lived. The Leviathans had been an accident, a fluke. If they hadn’t snuck in, Castiel could have done more good, even if just for a bit longer… Maybe this time, whatever this power was, he could harness it or control it.

He looked up, staring at the melancholy faces of his dead brothers and sisters. He would do anything to prevent more deaths, more family members buried under barren headstones.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But I won’t do this without Dean, I won’t do this without his help, and his knowledge. And Sam’s. They must know what I’m doing, they—”

Before he knew what was happening, all the dead hands pointing fingers at him snapped together and back, their palms tight and flat. Through the furious power of a wavelength of grace, Castiel was lifted off his feet, the feeling of a hand gripped around his throat, pulling him up off the ground. He gasped and clawed at an invisible hand that wasn’t there.

The woman angel crossed the distance between them, her wings trembling, flakes of burnt skin and feathers falling to the floor behind her like ashes.

“You tell them nothing, Castiel. They cannot know, they will stand in the way,” she spat. “These stupid, insignificant insects know nothing about what must be done to save Heaven. You are forbidden from revealing our plan.”

“This hosting of power has been prophesied, Castiel,” she whispered, standing close to his face, looking up at him through shining white eyes. “You are the purest, you are the chosen vessel. It must be you…”

Castiel tried to speak, to explain to her that he didn’t understand. He wanted to ask her what she meant by “prophecy” and “hosting”, but he felt like his windpipe was being crushed, and his head felt heavy, blood rushing into his brain.

Her voice changed again, rumbling and echoing, deeper and malicious. She pressed the tip of her angel blade to his stomach. “If you so much as utter a word about this to Dean Winchester or his goons, they will be exterminated like the cockroaches that they are.”

She grinned. “They will find out in due time, when He wants them to know.”

With that, she buried her angel blade into Castiel, only stopping when the hilt pressed against his stomach. He was dropped to the ground like a ragdoll, the hold on his neck released. Castiel’s knees hit the wood floor and he gasped wetly as blood pooled in his mouth and tumbled over his lips. It dripped down onto the pages of the book, open and taunting in front of him.

The angel kneeled down beside him, brushing her fingertips against his cheek softly. When he met her eyes, they were white and wide. She tilted her head at him and ordered, “The seed has been planted. Forget now, Castiel.”

Castiel’s eyes snapped open and he sat up quickly, his legs already over the side the bed, feet already on the floor where they’d been when he passed out. His hand grasped at his middle. His stomach hurting like someone had stabbed him.

There was a sharp, slicing pain in his stomach and he clapped a hand to his mouth, swallowing repeatedly. Castiel fell onto his knees and grabbed the waste bin by his night stand, holding it under his face as he coughed up blood, his stomach contracting. It ran over his tongue and into the bin, dark red and thick.

When the initial retching stopped, he tried to breathe but gasped wetly, wheezing, a string of blood hanging from his mouth. The sharp, slicing feeling in his stomach rose in his throat and then up in the back of his mouth. With a burst of panic, Castiel realised he was choking, unable to breathe. He tried to breathe again but only a thin stream of air wooshed down his windpipe. Something stung the back of his throat…

Shaken, he reached into his mouth, gagging. The tips of his fingers felt something, something with corners…

With a horrible, trembling gulp of air and a quick snap of his wrist, Castiel dislodged something from his throat. He panted as he stared at the thing in his palm.

With trembling fingers he fiddled with the thing, realising with a sinking feeling that it was a piece of paper, folded tightly. He swallowed hard and exhaled through his lips as he unfolded the final fold to reveal a note etched into old, dirty parchment, its edges singed and black, the top was ripped, like it had been torn from a book. He stared at the scratchy writing.

_Zimii ol oiad homil, Cnila ol aabco. Torzv._

His eyes ran over the top edge of the note, and his heart dropped when he recognized the blood splatters and ashy smudges around the outside. This…was from the book.

He stared at the ripped section of the page, confused, though feeling a tingle around his neck, and a spark of familiarity… He knew what it meant, he could read the Enochian, he just didn’t understand what was happening. He—

Heavy, determined footsteps were making their way down the hallway. Castiel frantically tied up the bag in the waste bin and crawled across the floor, his body still shaking, hot and weak. He grabbed a t-shirt from his bottom drawer and wiped blood from his mouth and hands on it. He collapsed back against the frame of his bed and shoved the t-shirt under the bed behind him.

Castiel looked down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, then rushedly opened his bedside drawer and threw it in. It shut just in time for Dean to walk into his room.

Dean walked back to in the direction of Cas’ room, his jaw clenched, tension making his shoulders tight. He held his gun loosely at his side.

There had been no intruder. At least none that he and Sam could find. If someone had been in the bunker, they had left and successfully evaded capture. But Dean and Sam highly doubted anyone had been their home. It was muddy and wet outside, and there were no tracks anywhere in the place except for Cas’, from the stairs to his room. The EMF readers hadn’t gone off, so they'd ruled out any invisible spirit visitors.

It was worrying. The terror in Cas’ eyes was something new, it had been alarming and put all the bunker residents on high alert. Dean had trusted Cas’ judgement—if something was bad enough to scare him, then it was bad enough for them all to be scared of. But something was off… Dean was questioning Cas’ judgement—his sanity, even.

He turned into his friend’s room. He found him sitting on the floor, leaning back against the side of his bed. He looked rough, pale and shaking, his eyes wide and far away. His skin shone with sweat, beads gathered on his brow and at the base of his neck. He was still sopping wet from the run, dripping water all over the floor. The bed had a wet, Cas shaped mark on the sheets and pillow.

He looked sick and a little wild in the eyes. Dean approached him, kneeling down on the ground beside him.

“Cas,” Dean asked slowly, gently clapping his hand against his friend’s face, the large hand lingering on his chin. “Castiel, hey. You still with me?”

“Yes,” Cas replied quietly. “I’m fine.”

Dean held Cas’ chin still, staring at him very deliberately, his green eyes darting from blue eye to the other, then down to his lips and forehead.

“Okay, there, buddy,” Dean reassured gently. “I’m just asking because you don’t look so hot.”

“Did you find the man?” Cas whispered.

Dean’s eyes narrowed and he looked Cas very carefully. His hand fell from Cas chin and rested on his shoulder.

“Uh, no, man. We didn't.”

Cas’ adam’s apple bobbed in his throat a few times, visibly swallowing over and over. His eyes darted over to a wire mesh waste bin with a tied up grocery bag inside. Dean followed his gaze, then fitted back over Cas’ face, noticing pale lips and a strange tint to his face.

“D’you throw up?” Dean asked gently.

Cas nodded, eyes a bit wide. Dean watched him push the bin away with his foot, away from them, as if he thought Dean was going to go opening the bag and digging around in his puke.

Dean smiled gently, though he knew it probably came off strained and put his hand on Cas head. He felt really warm, too warm.

“It’s all right, man,” he reassured the scared-looking angel. “It happens sometimes. It’s, uh, it’s okay.”

Without thinking, he ran his fingers through Cas’ wet bangs, pulling them up off his face. Cas watched him, still looking a bit wild in the eyes, though he was shaking less.

“You have to find the man,” his sick friend urged in his raspy voice.

Dean was the one whole swallowed hard this time. Cautiously, Dean answered, “There was no man, Cas. There was no one else here but us. Are you su—” he stopped himself, rephrasing, “Explain to me what exactly you saw?”

Cas looked at him, a series of emotions passing over his features. He started off anxious, then confused, then angry.

“You don’t believe me,” Cas whispered in realization, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t believe me about the man.”

“Cas, it’s not like I think you’re making it up, I just—”

“Of course I didn’t make it up!” Cas growled, his teeth clenched. “He was there, Dean. I was running, then it began to rain. Then… then he was there, in the distance. He came out of the forest, and, and… and then I turned around to go home. As I got back to the bunker, he was there, he was standing there—he _waved_ at me and then went inside. I saw him, Dean! He went inside. His eyes were white and he was coated in blood...”

Dean stared at him, and maybe Cas saw pity in his eyes, because he quickly transitioned from anger to desperation.

“You have to believe me,” Cas urged. “Dean, he was there, out there, and then he came in here, and then…” Cas trailed off, looking confused. He swallowed hard again, adding hesitantly, “I think… I think I dreamt about him, but I can’t quite remember.”

There was a moment of heavy tension in the air, almost awkward as Cas visibly realised how he sounded. He sounded crazy, but Dean didn’t say as much, he just squeezed Cas’ shoulder and changed the subject.

“Cas, what were you thinking, going out like that without telling anyone?”

Cas turned his head, staring at Dean.

“You must know how trapped I feel,” he explained in barely a whisper. “In more ways than one.”

Dean remained quiet, his heart pounding in his chest. He recalled the vessel comment from earlier.

“I needed to get out,” Cas continued, eyes searching Dean’s. “I needed peace, just for a moment. I feel… I feel hot and trapped in this body, in these circumstances, and in this bunker. I just needed space, Dean. I’ve… I’ve been overwhelmed.”

It was tempting to argue, to scold Cas, or to yell at him for worrying everyone and putting them all into panic mode, but Cas looked rough. The last few interactions between them had already been negative and tension-filled, they didn’t need more.

Dean got to his feet and outstretched his hands, palms up, offering to help his friend to his feet. Cas looked up at Dean, his eyes sunken and dark. He looked about ten years past exhausted, but he nodded, grasping Dean’s hands with his shaky ones, and let Dean help him up.

“Thank you,” Cas whispered, catching himself when his knees buckled a bit. Dean’s hand reached out quickly, curling around Cas’ waist.

“Whoa, there,” Dean shifting a bit closer. “You all right?”

They stood close, Dean still holding Cas’ warm hand between them, one hand on his waist.

“Tired,” Cas replied quietly, his voice rasping and low. Dean couldn’t help but notice that Cas was staring at his lips.

It was fucking tempting, Dean thought, to lean forward just a bit. Cas’ hair was wet and messy, and he radiated heat, which was strangely a turn on, but he was still white as a ghost, his lips pale, his eyes dark and his skin clammy. _It would be wrong to kiss him right now,_ Dean thought, _he’s not right. He’s not well._

Cas confirmed it a moment later, adding with an embarrassed flush, “And I think I’m sick as well as in an uncomfortable amount of pain. I think I reopened by back wounds.”

“Go shower,” Dean ordered, after he cleared his throat and nodded. He let go of his hand and stepped back, away from Cas. Dean bumped back against Cas’ dresser. “I’ll set some stuff up in here for you, for, y’know… Just go shower, I’ll take care of the cuts on your back when you’re done.”

Castiel stepped towards Dean, and Dean inhaled sharply as Cas got close, way closer than they had been before. For a breathless moment, Dean thought Cas was going to kiss him, but his friend grabbed a towel from a hook beside his dresser and stepped back, holding it in a bunch in his hands.

“Okay, I’ll return soon. Thank you, Dean,” Cas said, and he weirdly sounded regretful, staring at Dean’s features for an extra moment, before he slowly left the room holding onto the door frame for support as he disappeared into the hallway.

Cas hissed in pain when Dean poured alcohol over his cuts. There were only a few that had opened, one minor while the other was one with stitches on his spine, holding one of the sigils together.

Dean got to work on that one first, taking a swig of whiskey to steady his hands. The feeling of Cas’ warm skin against his fingertips was distracting. The smell of shampoo and soap mixed with Cas’ natural warm smell was distracting. Despite a healing tattoo and some nasty looking gashes, the overall view of Castiel’s back, the muscles sliding under skin, was deliciously distracting. Though the heat of fever and slickness of sweat on Cas’ forehead and in the dip of his spine was more distracting in a way that elicited substantial worry instead of arousal. Dean was torn.

Dean’s eyes flashed up to Cas’ face, turned sideways on the mattress, noticing the pallor of his skin and the patchy redness of his neck. In the silence of Castiel’s room, Dean could hear Cas’ frequent swallows and shaky breaths.

“You gonna be sick again, Cas?” he asked gently. Dean ran a cotton round over a small gash, leaving behind a sheen of hydrogen peroxide.

Cas shook his head. He chewed distractedly on his nails, his eyes far away.

Dean exhaled heavily through his nose and shook his head a bit, but continued working on Cas’ back, closing some cuts with butterfly bandages.

“Cas, how long have you felt, uh, sick?” Dean asked.

Pulling his hand away from his mouth, Cas tucked the hand under his shoulder. Quietly, and with a hint of shame, he admitted, “A week, maybe two? It’s worse now. It started after I…”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence, they both knew the answer. Dean clarified anyway, his tone unreadable, “After you read from that book?”

Cas sighed and his bright blue eyes flickered back to Dean, who sat on the edge of his bed as he worked on his back. Quietly, he said, “Yes.”

The lamps on either side of Cas’ bed and the lights in the hallway flickered, more violently now than before, casting them in darkness for a full second at a time. Dean felt Cas stiffen under his hands.

Dean meant to move on from the topic of that godforsaken book, knowing that subject was a landmine for heated arguments between them, but to his surprise, Cas brought it up on his own.

“What’s in that book, Dean?”

Dean pursed his lips. He tugged too hard on a stitch, causing Cas to flinch.

“ _You_ tell _me_ ,” murmured Dean. “You read it.”

“I don’t… I don’t remember anything,” Cas explained, his eyes squinting as if he was trying to recall the words. “It’s all very blurry, like a very old memory.”

As he tied the last stitch, Dean replied, “Sam and Kevin are working on it. They’ve been working on it since you, uh, since you read from it.”

“I see,” Cas murmured. His tone was neutral, but there was a touch of accusation when Cas added, “That’s why you have all been locked in Sam’s room.”

Dean felt a pang of guilt. He realised it probably felt very isolating, to be left out of the case, if they could call it that, and excluded from the research. They hadn’t told Cas what they were up to, but he was sure Cas got the loud and clear message to stay away.

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed. He snapped the first aid kid closed and reached over to Cas’ bedstand, popping the top to a tube of Tattoo Goo.

“I would like to help,” Cas said, shifting his head against the mattress. “I want to know what’s going on.”

The gel was spread slowly down Cas’ spine over the tattoo, Dean’s fingers idling slowly on each bump of Cas’ spine.

“I don’t think that’s a great idea, Cas.”

Cas shifted again, this time releasing a telling exhale of frustrated air from his nose. With a mixture of pleading and anger, Cas asked, “Won’t you tell me what’s in the text? Don’t I deserve to know? I’ve read from it, Dean. I… I feel it pulling at me, calling to me. I want to know why.”

Dean’s heart stopped and his fingers stilled. He stared hard at the side of Cas’ head, his brows furrowing and his eyes shining with concerned surprise. In a controlled manner, Dean asked, “What are you talking about, Cas?”

“I’ve been hearing voices, Dean.”

“Voices?” Dean repeated. “You mean, the angels?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed, but then added in almost a whisper, “and others.”

The quiet, timid admission had Dean lurking in a heavy silence for a beat too long.

“Others?”

Dean watched Cas’ face change, his eyes slide closed and his brow furrow, his face a mixture of confusion and pain.

“I… don’t know who they are, but ever since I read from the book, they’ve been speaking to me,” he confessed. After swallowing hard, Cas continued, “Quietly at first, but lately, especially tonight, they’re getting stronger and more clear.”

Dean felt frozen. Cas was hearing _voices._ “What are they saying, Cas?”

Cas’ eyes snapped open. In a flat tone, devoid of emotion, Castiel recited, “ _Open it. Read it._ ”

Dean forced himself to continue massaging the gel over Cas’ tattoo, swallowing the thick lump in his throat and forcing down the bubbling sensation of anxiety and fear that tried to crawl up his chest from his stomach. He needed to tell Sam and Kevin. They needed to hide the book, put better protections around the thing. They could _not_ let Cas get his hands on it. He couldn’t be allowed to open it, to read it.

The lights flickered again and Cas’ body tensed again. Dean was glad he’d thought to bring Cas some candles, after distributing some to Sam and Kevin. The power would likely go out. Cas seemed uneasy about the lights going out.

“Cas,” Dean said with a purposeful calmness in his voice, for once knowing anger or blame wouldn’t help the situation, “you know you can’t listen to those voices.”

The long pause that followed almost drove Dean to insanity. He watched Cas’ face twist into a brief look of a pained thoughtfulness. Then, Cas nodded. It was a small gesture, but the confirmation that his friend knew to not trust the voices was a small win.

Dean decided to let the subject slide until the morning. Cas looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes were only accentuated by the dim lamplight.

“Listen, I’ve got these wounds all sealed up and I put some of that moisturizer gunk that Trish gave us on your tattoo,” Dean explained, patting Cas on the arm, nodding at him to show it to him. “How’s the anti-possession one?”

“It’s fine,” Cas replied, pushing himself up weakly, turning his arm so Dean could see the sigil inked into his forearm. It was a bit red and beginning to peel like a sunburn.

“Here,” Dean offered, helping Cas turn over and sit up, his legs swinging over the edge of the bed. “Let me put some of this goo on that one too.”

It was a task that didn’t require assistance, but Cas didn’t fight him on it and Dean went for it, taking Cas’ arm in one hand, and massaging the gel over Cas’ other tattoo. Dean took his time, making sure each corner of the tattoo was moisturized. He set down the tube when he was done, wiped his hands on his jeans, and from the bedside he picked up two tiny pills that he’d brought with the rest of the supplies. They were handed to Cas along with a glass of water.

“I want you to take these. There’s some Gravol and a Tylenol. Down ‘em with water, they’ll go down easier.”

Cas stared down at the little chalky pills in his palm. He frowned as he looked over at Dean. “Will they… will they make me sleep?”

Dean shrugged. “The Gravol might make you kinda drowsy.”

His friend look back down at the pills, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He surveyed them again for a moment, then with shyness, Cas asked Dean, “Is Gravol a sleeping pill?”

Dean snorted. “No. I just know you’re feeling kind of, uh,” he gestured towards the trash can, positioned now at the base of the bedside table right by Cas’ pillows, “sick, or nauseous or whatever. It’ll help with that, but it makes you sleepy too. Why? What’s the big deal?”

Cas was quiet. He took the Tylenol with a mouthful of water, though he seemingly struggled to keep it down for a moment. Then he looked back down at the small round orange pill, rolling it between his thumb and pointer finger.

Dean’s face softened, understanding, and he slid an arm around Cas’ shoulders. “You gotta sleep, Cas.”

Cas swallowed hard. He stared at his dresser, his eyes on the drawer handle though his gaze was far away. “My nightmares have been… vivid.”

Thunder crashed and the lights blinked on and off. Dean watched Cas’ hands ball into fists. The arm he had around Cas’ shoulders squeezed. Finally, Cas looked over at Dean, his eyes shining. He looked tormented.

“I feel you about the nightmares, Cas—”

Thunder crashed again, sounding like it was right on top of them. Dean’s arm dropped from Cas’ shoulders and he grabbed one of the two flashlights he’d brought, setting one on the bed beside him. He reached into his pocket and fished out a lighter, reaching across Cas again to grab a tall candle from the nightstand.

“Fuck,” he muttered, lighting the wick and setting the wax candle down onto Cas’ bedside table. “I think the power might actually go out tonight.”

As he lit the second candle, putting it on the other side of the bed, Cas took the Gravol.

Dean smiled at Cas, who smiled back tightly. Dean eyed him nervously for a moment, then summoned up the courage and slid his hand under one of the fists balled in Cas’ lap.

“The drugs should kick in soon, Cas. You’ll feel a lot better,” Dean reassured him, but then added softly, “I wish you’d told me earlier that you weren’t feeling well. I could have helped sooner.”

Fists loosened and warm fingers wrapped around Dean’s as Cas whispered, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Dean’s heart pounded as Cas held his hand back. The skin where they touched each other was tingling. Dean glanced up from their intertwined fingers at Cas. “And the voices?”

With another hard swallow, Cas glanced over at Dean, his cheeks tinted in shame. “I didn’t want to frighten you.”

They held their stare, Cas looking ashamed and ill, while Dean searched his eyes, his own expression determined.

“Cas,” he said roughly, “you promise me if you hear those voices, just… just don’t listen to them, okay?”

Cas’ blue eyes searched Dean’s green ones for a moment, a strange hesitating moment, but then he nodded, a small, slow gesture that carried significance.

Dean raised his hand and poked himself in the chest, eyes unblinking as they held Cas’ gaze.

“Cas, if it's between me and the voices, you listen to _me_ ,” he whispered, “not the voices. I’m real, they’re not.”

Cas looked from one green eye to the other. His light blue stare swept up and took in the details of Dean’s forehead and temple, then drifted over and surveyed Dean’s nose, then jaw, then his stare settled on Dean’s lips.

Cas’ free hand suddenly lifted off his lap and the fingers unfurled. Dean’s heart pounded against his chest when Cas’ softly curled, relaxed fingers reached up and ran along Dean’s hairline and over his nose, sliding down the side of his nose on to his cheek, then down over rough stubble… Cas’ hand fell back down to his lap.

“You’re real,” he repeated back. “They’re not.”

Dean’s heart was stuck in his throat. His face thrummed and buzzed where Cas’ warm fingers had dragged over his skin. It had been such a peculiar touch, but Dean expected nothing else from Cas.

“Are the voices talking to you right now?” Dean asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No, they’re quiet,” replied Castiel, blinking. “They’ve quieted since you got here. But they always seem to come back when I try to sleep, so...”

Cas’ voice trailed off and he looked away, his head bowed just a little bit, his eyes trained on the floor, his jaw clenching.

Suddenly Dean understood the late night tossing and turning, the soft sounds of Cas’ feet padding down the hallway and around the bunker at night.

“Is that why you’ve been up during the night?” Dean asked, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead.

Cas’s tired face turned towards Dean again quickly, looking puzzled. “How do you know about that?”

“Because I hear you,” Dean admitted, though his cheeks burned.

Castiel squinted a bit at Dean, frowning. “And you’re awake to hear me?”

Dean actually smiled, but it was small and bitter and it probably didn’t quite meet his eyes. “You’re not the only one with nightmares.”

Cas’ frown softened and Dean found himself staring at Cas’ lips as they twitched up in one corner, curling into a sad smile of understanding, the lines around his eyes becoming shallow.

“What a pair, you and I,” Cas whispered. Dean squeezed his hand. Cas squeezed back.

Cas’ damp head of hair rested down on Dean’s shoulder, the top of his head tucked flush up against Dean’s neck, the cool, wet hair tickling his jaw and collarbone. Dean suddenly forgot to be angry or scared or sad. Every negative emotion he’d felt recently drained away.

In the soft, dim lighting of candles, sitting flush, side-to-side with Cas, their hands intertwined and Cas’ head on his shoulder, Dean felt at peace. He turned his face and found himself inhaling the warm smell of Cas’ hair, the mix of shampoo and soap and linen and cinnamon.

The abrupt sound of the power going out, as well as the high pitched noise of the backup generator kicking into gear had Cas jerk his head up and suck in air through his mouth, sounding alarmed. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open a bit when the red lockdown lights turned on, engulfing the hallway and half of Cas’ room in red spinning beams of light.

“What?” Dean asked. “What’s wrong?”

“This happened in my nightmare,” Cas breathed, his wide eyes watching the lights spin bright, then dim, then bright again.

“What?”

“The lights,” Castiel clarified, swallowing hard. “The red lights.”

Dean stared at Cas, then looked over at the red lights cycling in the hallway. “Yeah, uh, the bunker goes into lockdown when the power is out. Sorry, I guess we should have explained. It happened last month during another pretty bad storm.”

“We’re locked in here?” Cas asked, his voice tight and strained.

Dean heard Cas’ voice from earlier in his mind. _‘You must know how trapped I feel.’_

In order to reassure his friend, Dean squeezed his hand and explained, “We can undo the lockdown function from the electrical room.” Dean noticed Cas hadn’t torn his eyes away from the lights. “The rest of the power is down, but the backup generators run the red lights. I guess they’re there so we can see… the place has no windows, it would suck to be stuck down here in pitch black. Imagine how creepy that would be,” he added, trying to joke.

Dean chuckled, ”Sam and I nearly shit ourselves the first time the power went out and these red alarm lights came on. I thought someone had dropped a nuke or something. Dunno why I’d think that, but I did. Sam ended up finding this giant electric-manual-thing in the electrical room. It explained all the lockdown and backup generator stuff.”

“How long were you down here?” Castiel asked roughly, his voice sounding uneasy.

Dean shrugged. “It was no biggie, the lights were on by the time we woke up. I guess that’s the perk to living under a power plant.”

But Cas’ eyes were still trained on the red beams of light, his expression still anxious. Dean released his hand and he stood. He walked over to the door, closing it, shutting out the red light. It flashed under the doorway, but other than that, the two men were closed in the small room with just the flickering light from the candles.

“Dean…”

“Let’s keep this shut until the power comes back on,” Dean said lightly, trying to diffuse the tension. He walked over to Cas’ drawers and fished out a t-shirt, handing it to his injured friend, who nodded in thanks and gingerly slid the shirt over his head, hissing as it brushed over his cuts.

Dean undid his own belt as Cas popped his head through the neck hole of his shirt. Dean slid his own jeans down and grabbed a pair of Cas’ loose pyjama pants from the drawer, stepping into them and tying the strings tight around his waist.

When Dean looked up from his waist to look at Cas, he caught his friend on the tail end of a shiver. Cas stared at Dean, looking strangely vulnerable as his eyes flickering up from the pants Dean had borrowed to his face.

“You all right, Cas?”

Cas nodded jerkily and looked away, “Yes. Fine. It’s… it’s just cold in here.”

Cas swallowed hard and Dean wondered if maybe he was feeling nauseous again. He was about to ask, but Cas looked back at him, suddenly looking almost angry.

“Why are you wearing my clothes?” Cas asked, frowning.

Dean shrugged, feeling self-conscious. But he put on a playful smile and walked around the bed, to the side that was untouched, not a wrinkle in it like no one had slept there ever. He bent over and turned down the sheets, sliding onto the bed with his knees. Cas shifted around on the bed to face Dean without twisting his back too much.

Dean grinned, hoping it reached his eyes and hoping that his hands weren’t shaking with the nervousness he felt. This was a bad idea, he thought, Cas wasn’t okay with this…

“I’m bunking with you tonight,” he said. “As for the clothes… it's payback for those first two weeks when you wore all my best t-shirts and stuck me with the laundry.”

He didn’t wait for an answer when he punched one of Cas’ pillows to fluff it and slid under the covers. Cas was still watching him, his face still sorted into an expression of discontent.

“You’re sleeping here with me?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yes, dude. Don’t make it weird.”

“Why?” The tone was clipped and annoyed.

Despite feeling really insecure all of a sudden, Dean carried on pretending that he was nonchalant. He slid his arm under the pillow and rested his head on it, getting comfortable. “You’ve got a lot going on with the voices and the being sick thing and the lockdown… I figured it’d be easier to check up on you if I was right here, y’know?”

Cas’ next words were revealing. Dean understood suddenly why Cas seemed upset.

“You aren’t just doing this because of what I said before? Because of how I made you feel guilty?” Cas asked, breaking his stare with Dean, suddenly fixing the candle nearest to him with a flickering glance of embarrassment. “About… my vessel?”

The lump in Dean’s throat returned. When words got stuck under the lump, unable to come up, Dean instead chose to reach over and turn down the sheets on Cas’ side of the bed.

Cas stared at Dean, looking unsure and guarded. Then he nodded and slowly got under the covers, hissing in pain, but then moaning as his head hit the pillow, visibly sinking into the mattress.

They lay on their sides, facing each other. As Cas stared at Dean, his face soft in the candlelight, Dean’s natural reaction was to tell him to cut it out, to stop staring, that he was making it weird. But instead, Dean stared back, searching Cas’ face, his heart squeezing as he noticed the thin sheen of sweat on Cas’ forehead and the tremble in his hands, probably from the fever.

Again, for the second time tonight, Dean reached out and pushed Cas’ hair back from his forehead, messing it up a bit. Then he pulled the hand back and slid it under his pillow.

“You don’t have to do this,” Cas whispered. “You should go back to your own room. ”

Dean, unlike before, knew what he meant. When he slid his hand back out from under the pillow, the sound of his skin across the sheets was loud. The hand found Cas’ under the sheets.

“Go to sleep, Cas,” Dean whispered back.

“What I said about my vessel. It made you uncomfortable. I… I made you uncomfortable and I’m sorry.”

Dean shut his eyes, feeling a strange tingling behind him, a burning in his sinus that he recognized. Suddenly he propped himself up on his elbow, licked his thumb and pointer finger, and leaned over Cas, extinguishing the candle with the pads of his fingers. He did the same thing to the candle on his side and settled back down into the bed.

Feeling brave in the dark, Dean slid a leg forward and in between Cas’ legs. He heard Cas’ small inhalation of breath, sounding loud in the silent room. But Cas’ legs parted, and when his legs relaxed around Dean’s, Dean shuffled forward and draped an arm around Cas’ shoulders and rested his chin on top of Cas’ head. Their interlaced fingers were sandwiched in between their chests.

In his arms, Cas shivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The imagery of the person rising from the mud initially came from The Evil Dead movie, but what really springs to mind for me when it comes to a swallowing-bed is the bloody bed scene from The Nightmare on Elm Street. 
> 
> Can you tell I love my horror movie tropes?


	9. Chapter 9

_Castiel’s heart slammed against his chest and his entire body burned as he ran through the forest, slipping on mud and tripping over thick tree roots. He sprinted through the dark, damp forest, his breath punching out of him as he pushed forward, dodging around tree trunks and ducking under branches. His was skin flayed and scratched by dry, dead bushes and thorny twigs that twisted and jutted out from behind mangled trees._

_“Get back here, angel,” his pursuer whispered, the sound echoing in the open space, bouncing off of trees and reverberating in Cas’ head, even over the thunderous noise of rain hitting the ground._

_“You can run but you can’t hide from me, Castiel. I’ve waited long enough. I’m not waiting any longer. I’m tired of waiting. I can smell your purity, I can taste it. I want it… I’ll have it. One way or another.”_

_Castiel leapt—after a burst of speed—over a small creek, landing on uneven soil, faltering and hitting the ground hard. He didn’t pause to look back. He just heaved himself off the forest floor with a growl and ran._

_“I will have you, I’ll be inside you, you’ll say yes… YOU’LL SAY YES!” it roared. The sound brought Cas to his knees as the earth quaked. He was thrown forward, his hands sinking into the mud and soggy carcasses of dead leaves and rainwater._

_“You’re not real,” Cas rasped, pulling his hands from dirt with a sickening squelch. He clapped his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re not real. You’re not real. I’m not listening to you. I’m not listening_. _”_

_Pushing himself up onto his knees again, Castiel screamed with fury and fear and desperation as he began sinking, the mud under him dipping down into the earth, flooding suddenly with murky brown water, the surface rippling red with blood. The swampy sludge enveloped him rapidly and splashed around his shoulders._

_“Listen to me, Cas,” Dean’s voice whispered in his head._

_Castiel’s eyes opened and Dean was kneeling in front of him, his gentle hands pulling at Cas’ wrists. They sank into the swampy liquid together. It rose up to their chins and bubbled around their ears._

_Dean smiled calmly at Castiel, unbothered by rain or mud or drowning. Rain poured down his smooth face, his eyes a brilliant, crisp gold, with subtle flecks of green visible against the dull, brown background of the forest. He looked magnificent._

_“Listen to me, Castiel,” Dean said clearly over the pounding of rain against the mud and forest floor. Castiel choked and gasped, spitting out mud water as it sloshed into their mouths. “Only me, not them. Listen—”_

“ _—_ to me, Cas,” Dean whispered, his breath hot against Castiel’s lips. Castiel woke up with a violent jerk, his eyes snapping open, blinking away sweat. 

His swallowed gasps and choked exhalations were loud in between his and Dean’s face. In the darkness, Castiel felt Dean’s hands run comfortingly over his face and down his side, stopping on his hip.

“Listen to me, Cas,” Dean repeated in a calm whisper. “You’re fine. You’re here with me.”

Castiel struggled to reply back, his body still gripped in horror from his nightmare, his neck, chest, and back slick with sweat. His fingers cramped as they were curled around Dean’s shirt, his knuckles pressed hard against Dean’s collarbone. The fists were so tightly curled that it hurt his joints when he finally let go.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel choked out, urging his shaking to stop, his heart to slow down, and for the boiling heat in his body to cool. His mouth tasted like earth, like mud. He remembered choking on muddy water, the vivid imaginary sensation of sludge pooling under his tongue making his stomach churn.

He sat up in bed and dragged his sleeve over his face, wiping away sweat. From the open doorway, red beams of light swept over him and Dean in the otherwise pitch black room. 

“The door is open,” Castiel breathed, the already present anxiety swelling in his chest. He knew it was irrational to be frightened of red lights, but for some reason the image of a creature rising horrifically from his bed seemed permanently marred into his brain. It was a blurry memory, and Cas wasn’t even sure which nightmare it had been from, but the fear had stuck with him in a very tangible way. Quickly, the image of blood gushing out from the edges of a doorway flashed across his mind, but it was gone almost instantly.

Beside him, Dean stood and walked over to the door, shutting it and casting them back into complete darkness. The darkness made Castiel feel almost as uneasy as the red lights. He sat completely still as Dean maneuvered easily through the darkness. Castiel felt a light breeze as Dean walked by, and he inhaled, hoping to smell leather and worn cologne, but for some reason, all he could smell was wet earth and blood from his nightmare. 

There was a flick from Dean’s lighter. The candle on Cas’ beside was lit once more, casting them both in soft orange light. 

Castiel expected him to light the other one on Dean’s side of the bed too, but with a quick glance, Castiel saw it was gone. He turned back to Dean to say as much, but the other man had followed his gaze and smiled.

“It must have rolled off the side of the table. I probably knocked it over,” Dean mused, sliding one knee onto the bed _—_ Castiel’s side of the bed. 

Castiel looked down at the leg as it pressed against the side of his thigh, then back up at Dean, who smiled down at him.

“Your shirt is soaked, Cas,” Dean murmured. The low rumbling sound made Castiel shiver and he found he couldn’t respond over a lump in his throat. It got worse when Dean languidly slung his other leg over Castiel’s legs, straddling his thighs.

Castiel’s heart continued to pound against this chest, even though his nightmare was forgotten. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Dean,” he whispered with confusion, “What… what are you doing?”

Dean’s fingers carded through Castiel's hair, pushing it from his face and tucking locks, tips damp with sweat, behind Castiel’s ears. The touches were simultaneously comforting and electrifying, leaving a trail of tingling in their wake.

Dean smiled, flashing Castiel a small toothy grin. “Showing you how much I like this vessel.”

Castiel’s mouth parted slightly, his mouth dry. For a moment he was at a loss for words, then Castiel choked out, “Dean, you don’t have to do this, you _—_ ”

A smoky chuckle reduced Castiel back into silence.

“When,” Dean asked, “have I ever been known to do anything I didn’t want to do?”

Cool fingers drifted down Castiel’s sides, settling near his waist. Castiel found himself smiling a bit, albeit nervously.

“Anyway, your shirt, Cas. You should change out of it,” Dean whispered, and Castiel couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Dean Winchester was straddling his lap, and that Dean Winchester’s fingers were tickling his hip bones as they wrapped around the bottom of his t-shirt and began pulling it up.

Confusion, though strong, was a secondary emotion to the engrossing fascination with what was happening in Castiel’s room, on his bed, on his lap. All he could do was stare and nod dumbly, his own fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, helping Dean pull it over his head. Dean tossed it aside and turned back to Cas, the same soft smile on his lips.

“Some nightmare, huh?”

Castiel finally found his voice. He nodded. “Yes.”

Cool fingers ran gently _—_ God, so gently it was maddening _—_ up Castiel’s naked arm and danced over his shoulders, one dragging over his collarbone, then up his neck. Dean’s nails tickled his hairline. 

His gaze was locked on Dean’s, as green eyes, appearing gold in the flickering candlelight, followed the path laid out by his fingers. Castiel tried to focus. 

With a wavering murmur, he asked, “Why was the door open?”

Dean’s eyes didn’t leave Castiel’s collarbone, then shoulder, then neck… 

“I left to go talk to Sam, to make sure he was all right,” Dean explained, the low reverb of his voice eliciting a tightening feeling between Castiel’s legs.

“And?” Cas breathed.

“He’s fine.” Dean’s tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. The sight of it made Castiel hold his breath. “He can’t sleep. Neither can Kevin. They’re working on the book instead.”

The hand tickling the skin on Cas’ neck slipped down his torso, one loose finger training over Castiel’s collarbone again, then over the curve of his pec and over his sternum. Cas continued to hold his breath, his eyes actually fluttering closed for a moment before he remembered to breathe. The air slipped past his lips slowly in a controlled manner. 

“How _—_ ” his breath actually hitched when Dean turned his hand and dragged his nails softly over the soft bumps of Castiel’s abs, “ _—_ h-how are they doing with it?”

Dean’s eyes trailed down Cas’ middle, following his fingers again, his eyes hooded and dark, his full lips parted a bit. Dirty blond hair, ungelled and un-spiked, fell onto his forehead. It was just how Castiel liked it; clean and shiny, tousled at the front, and falling a bit, like it was freshly washed and air-dried, like it looked at breakfast in the mornings when Dean read the news from Sam’s tablet and sipped on coffee _—_

“Not so good,” Dean replied quietly. He dragged one finger across the soft bit of skin just above Castiel’s waistband. Dean finally looked at him, his eyes glancing up to meet Castiel’s. “They translated most of it. We know it talks about angels and Heaven. We started reading something about souls but the bottom of the page has been ripped out. Weird, huh?

“Anyway, they’ve translated some pieces, but they’re unsure what they mean. So far they’ve got ‘Heaven’ and ‘angels’. Kevin thinks one of the symbols means ‘prophecy’ but we’re not sure…”

Through the bizarro-seduction and the intoxicating effect of Dean’s fingers trailing over his skin, Castiel’s attention was caught. He blinked a bit and frowned, “Angels? Heaven? Dean, this could be important for _—_ ”

“Yeah,” Dean breathed. He leaned sideways and forward a bit, his face close to Castiel’s as he reached back towards the nightstand. The proximity had Castiel holding his breath again. Their eyes met and they both held the stare, unblinking, even as Dean slid open Castiel’s bedside drawer and pulled something out. He moved back a few inches and held something up to Castiel’s face.

Between their faces, in between Dean’s thumb and pointer finger, was the folded up piece of paper _—_ the ripped section from the book.

“And this,” Dean whispered, bringing up his other hand to unfold the page, “could be important too.”

Castiel’s stomach clenched apprehensively, waiting for Dean to blow up at him for hiding the ripped section of the book. Castiel didn’t even know why he’d kept it, but at the time, throwing it away seemed like an unthinkable action, so he’d hid it. 

“Dean, I-I’m sorry _—_ ” Castiel started to say, but Dean shook his head.

To Castiel’s surprise, Dean held out the piece of paper for him to take. Castiel glanced down at the dirty piece of parchment, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Dean, what are you doing?” whispered Castiel.

Dean pushed it towards Castiel again, his lips turning up into a smile. “It’s about time we got serious about translating this thing. It was stupid to hide it from you, Cas. You’re the only one who can read it. It’s in ancient Enochian; it was made for you to read.”

Castiel tilted his head at Dean and his brows furrowed deeper. A strange feeling of excitement blossomed in his chest while his stomach gave a nervous squeeze.

“You’re… giving me access to the book?” Castiel asked. 

Almost outside of his control, he saw his own hand come up and wrap around the piece of paper. An excited thrumming started in his fingertips where they met with the rough parchment, and it traveled up his arm.

“You’ve been right this whole time, Castiel,” Dean whispered, slowly leaning forward, closer than before, closer than he’d ever been to Castiel’s face voluntarily. For a crazy moment, Castiel thought Dean was going to kiss him, but then lips brushed against the stubble of his jaw and then rested against the shell of his ear. Castiel shuddered as Dean’s hot breath danced over his neck. “We have no choice, it has to be you.”

Then, when Castiel turned his head to stare at Dean, Dean did kiss him.

Their lips fit together perfectly, like they’d been designed by God’s very hands to function only for this purpose. Dean’s shy touches turned confident, his hand cupping the back of Castiel’s head, pulling him closer, their lips sliding against each other’s, tongues brushing gently. Dean’s hips slid forward and rolled down hard against Castiel’s, who lifted up to meet him halfway. Dean’s grip on Castiel’s hip tightened, his fingers digging into his skin.

The harder they kissed, the more fervent were their hitched breathes and moans, the heavier the fog in Castiel’s mind became. He felt dizzy, suddenly very lightheaded. He knew his own hands had come up to grip Dean’s face, tangle in his hair, and tug at the locks there hungrily. He knew that Dean bit down on his lip and he felt their tongues brushing against each other, their lips sliding together as their heads moved and their noses bumped. From far away, Castiel felt Deans fingernails dig into his ribcage as his arm slid around Castiel’s waist, pulling him close almost crushingly.

But it began to feel strange as the fog thickened. His limbs felt light, his head spinning. When Dean finally pulled back, his eyes dark and his lips red and glistening, Castiel’s vision blurred.

“Come, angel,” Dean whispered, his voice was rough like gravel. He had stood and was dragging Castiel up, their fingers linked. Castiel blinked, trying to clear his vision. He felt Dean’s hands on him again, helping him raise his arms. Soft cotton slid over his arms and over his torso as Dean pulled a shirt over his head. 

“Come on,” Dean coaxed, pulling Castiel from the room. Castiel nodded and followed obediently, his feet feeling as if they hardly were touching the ground. For a trip that usually took a minute, he felt as if he’d blinked and suddenly Dean was already leading him up the stairs from the war room to the library. 

Castiel’s feet felt sluggish and he struggled to focus through the fog. He shook his head to clear his mind, and it almost worked, but Dean walked around him, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind, nudging his feet forward with his toes. 

He walked them forward, his mouth pressing against the back of Castiel’s ear, a tongue darting out to lick up the side of Cas’ neck. Castiel moaned, his arms wrapping around himself, slotting over Dean’s hands.

They stopped at the end of the nearest table. Dean stepped away from Castiel, coming to his side, urging him forward with a firm hand on his lower back. 

In front of Castiel, placed neatly on the edge of the table, clear through the fog, was the book.

Castiel swallowed thickly, his hands shaking with anticipation. He’d been kept away from this book for weeks… It might possibly be able to help him save the angels, it might contain something that may give him the power to get revenge on Metatron. He didn’t know why he felt these things or why he thought they might be true. Across his mind flashed an image of dead angels sitting in the library, but the scene dissolved and disintegrated from his mind like ash.

He also felt a wave of nervousness and trepidation. He’d been kept away from this book for weeks for a reason. There was something inherently wrong about it; the pages splattered in blood, the grotesque illustrations, the words carved in red ink, the parchment smudged in ashes, and the generally horrific circumstances they’d found it in… And the voices…

“Open it,” Dean whispered in his ear, his body pressed flush against Castiel’s back again, his hands slipping over Castiel’s biceps and curled up around his shoulders.

Cas felt light-headed again. He watched his own hands reach forward and he watched his fingers curl around the book cover, pulling it open. Dean’s hand slipped over his own, guiding him as he flipped through large, stiff pages, finally landing on the one in question, the one with the piece torn off the bottom.

Dean’s hand wrapped around Castiel’s, gently turning his palm up. Castiel’s eyes focused on his own hand, realising that he’d been gripping the folded piece of paper with three fingers this entire time, a series of red indents in his palm were left behind by sharp corners. In a daze, he slowly unfolded the parchment and spread it over the book, holding the ripped seam up to its intact counterpart. There was a glow of light and the rip fused together, completely the whole page when the light faded.

Dean was breathing heavily near Castiel’s ear, his hot breath puffing out over the nape of Castiel’s neck. He could hear Dean swallow thickly. Castiel realised he was also breathing heavily.

“Read it,” his voice rasped, rough like gravel again. Castiel could have sworn it echoed. 

Dean’s arms came around Castiel’s waist and shoulders, holding him so closely and tightly it bordered on pain. He grinded forward against Castiel’s back, causing him to stumble forward, catching himself on the table, hands on either side of the open book.

“Read it,” Dean hissed. “All of it. I want to hear it.”

All reason, all logic, all autonomous thought left Castiel as his mind was overtaken by the fog, a dizzying sensation that left him feeling like he was floating. He felt simultaneously amazing and sick to his stomach as his mouth moved and his eyes followed the words on the page.

_“Olani argedco oiad plapli ol mfrlfn,_

_ofecvfa ol nata ol asiagiar mfrlfn,_

_od pon oiad irpoil pe oadriax,_

_od donasdogamatas stogol._

_Iolci loncho tzets nanaeel ol nata olani gemeganza,_

_aziagiar oiad mfrlfm od ol niis”_

He paused, something telling him that he should stop. But Dean’s arms tightened around him and he heard him growl, “I said _read it._ ”

With an echoing breath, Castiel finished the page, completing the incantation;

_“Iadpil nanta gememe ganza noasmiin._

_Zimii ol oiad homil, cnila ol aabco... Torzv.”_

The last words on the pages were read aloud, falling from Castiel’s lips smoothly, his voice flat and rumbling. 

Against his back, Dean chuckled darkly and ran his hands over Castiel’s arms, and up over his neck, threaded through his hair, softly.

“That’s it, my fallen angel,” he whispered. “So good, so pure. I can’t wait to be inside you.”

Castiel’s head lolled forward and his eyes rolled back into his head, his lashes fluttering as his body buzzed, something growing deep inside his stomach, an electricity spreading through his torso and through his limbs. He felt his skin thrumming, this blood rushing, and with a hoarse gasp, he felt Dean turn him around. 

Castiel felt the fog lift him up, his heels lifting off the floor, his body weightless.

A strong, confining arm wrapped around his waist, and Dean’s cold, strong hand gripped his jaw, his nails digging into his face.

“Open those beautiful lips, Castiel. It’s time now,” Dean whispered roughly, his thumb dragging across Cas’ mouth, more urgent and forceful than before. “Open up for me, let me in. Let me be inside you _—_ ”

Abruptly, Dean was gone and Castiel had to catch himself on the edge of the table, hands thrown back and feet hitting the floor. His knees buckled and Cas gasped for air, his lungs burning like he’d held his breath.

He suddenly felt cold. Freezing, like all semblance of warmth and comfort were out of his grasp for eternity. He was suddenly unable to remember what happiness even remotely felt like. 

Dean stared at him from the steps into the library from the war room. He had a candle in his hand and a confused look on his face, his eyes a bit wide.

“Cas?” he asked, puzzled. “What are you doing out here?”

But Castiel hardly heard him. He felt empty. His body felt cold where Dean had been pressed up against him moments earlier. He felt hungry for him, longing for Dean to finish what he’d started, to give him back that warmth. He was hungry to let him in, to let him fill this coldness, this emptiness inside him. He was a hollow vessel, he needed a purpose, he needed someone inside him. Castiel was nothing, he was worthless, empty, he served no purpose, he was nobody, he had no soul, he wasn’t an angel, he wasn’t a person, he was nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, _nothing—_

As Dean slowly climbed the steps into the library, staring at Castiel, the flame from his candle reflecting in his eyes, Castiel pushed off the table and walked towards him with purpose. 

Dean only had a moment to tilt his head and ask, “Cas, what _—_ ” before Castiel was in his personal space. The smell of leather and worn cologne filled Castiel’s nose, making him dizzy, making his stomach tighten and heat pool between his legs. 

Dean’s candle clattered to the ground when Castiel reached down in one swift movement and wrapped his hands around the back of Dean’s thighs, hoisting him up with an immense show of strength. One arm came up to press up against Dean’s lower back as he lifted him up in one swift motion, spinning them to the side and slamming Dean back against a pillar. 

Dean looked shocked, choking out, “Cas! Jesus!” 

But Castiel shut him up, pinning Dean up against the pillar with his body, with a rolling of his hips. His big hands slid from the back of Dean’s thighs by his ass, all the way under his knees, wrapping his legs around his waist. He hoisted him up further, so their groins were slotted together and their heaving chests were pressed firmly against one another.

Castiel closed the final gap between them, capturing Dean’s lips fervently. Dean made startled little noise against Castiel’s mouth, and released a little hitched breath. His hands, panicked from being lifted off his feet, grasped at Castiel’s t-shirt and the other arm was thrown around his shoulders in a panic. 

But shock aside, Dean kissed back, his lips slotted with Castiel’s, his eyes sliding shut and the arm around Castiel’s shoulder gripping him tighter, the legs around Castiel’s waist wrapping further. 

The fog was fading but Castiel still felt a pull, a desperation for Dean. He wanted more of him, he wanted to not feel empty anymore, he wanted the void to be filled _—_

“Yes,” Castiel breathed against Dean’s lips. Words he didn’t have control over poured from his mouth, egged on by the fog, by the dizziness, by the pull, by that _aching emptiness_. “Do it. I’m open for you. I’ll let you in. I want you inside me.”

His lips opened, parted for Dean, but his friend yanked his head back, breaking their kiss.

Cas was boiling against Dean’s body, so hot in between his legs and on his lips. Dean clung to him for dear life, partially frightened to be dropped, partially because no one had ever hoisted him up off the ground, wrapped his legs around their waist, and pinned him to a wall. It was the single hottest thing to ever happen to him. His cock was so hard he thought he might explode, and he thought he might actually pass out from how fervently he was being kissed. 

God, this was everything he ever wanted. Kissing Cas like this had been the focal point of so many fantasies, so many dreams, and so many imaginings. Dean’s heart felt like it might burst.

The moment was so flurried and intoxicating it made his head spin. He’d wanted this for so long. He didn’t think their first kiss would be so fucking dirty, with Cas dry fucking him up against a wall, but they were far from typical people, they _—_

 _“Yes,”_ Castiel had rasped, his voice sounding wrecked. _“Do it. I’m open for you. I’ll let you in. I want you inside me.”_

Dean’s eyes snapped open and he jerked his head back. His stomach dropped and his heart nearly stopped. 

He finally got a good look at Cas as red lights spun, flashing over Cas’ face. Cas looked fevered, his eyes glassy and far away, his face pale. He was drenched in sweat and he was shaking. 

Dean swallowed hard. Castiel’s blue eyes were absolutely wild. Dean didn’t even know if Cas really even saw him at all. 

“Put me down,” Dean choked out.

Cas panted hard against his lips. He smelt like rain and earth, like mud. 

It took a second, but then Cas slowly lowered him down until Dean’s feet touched the floor. They stood close together for a long series of moments, staring. Cas was staring hungrily at Dean’s lips, while Dean searched his face, all excitement and arousal draining from his body, quickly replaced with unease and nervousness. 

He reached out and wrapped a hand around Cas’ arm, giving him a shake.

“Cas?” he asked. “Cas, what’s wrong with you?”

When Cas didn’t reply, Dean ducked down and picked up the candle he’d dropped, glad to see it was out and hadn’t set anything on fire. He felt around in his pocket, grabbing his lighter, and lit the candle again, holding it up between him and Cas.

Cas was swaying now, looking white as a ghost and wrecked. His face was twisted into a pained expression. His lips moved quietly, words murmured under his breath. 

“What?” Dean asked, leaning towards Cas. His friend didn’t seem to hear him, instead inhaling shakily and staring somewhere past Dean’s shoulder. Dean stepped close.

“I feel so empty,” Castiel was whispering. “I’m so empty. I’m empty.”

Dean stepped back, horrified. His eyes darted around the room, trying to figure out what the fuck had happened before he got here. He’d just left Cas’ room for half an hour, tops. He’d left because he hadn’t been able to sleep, so he went to talk to Sam, to tell him about Castiel and the voices. He’d gotten water, distracted himself from insomnia and nightmares by reading for ten minutes in the kitchen. He’d only been gone for half an hour, what could have happened in that time?

Then… Dean’s heart stopped. He saw it. He knew what happened. 

He saw the book over Cas’ shoulder, open on the table.

Dean pushed past Cas and swept up the book, his hands beginning to shake. He stared down at it, furious, before he spun around to face Castiel, who had turned to face him. 

“Did you read from this?” Dean cried, his voice a snarl, a mixture of fear, of rage, and of mind-numbing worry. “Castiel… I said, _did you read from this_?”

“It had to be me,” Castiel whispered rushedly, his tone panicked. “Me. It had to be me. I’m pure. I’m the only one. But now I’m empty...” Cas bowed his head, tangling his fingers in his hair. “I am _nothing_ without him.”

Dean watched him, anger fading and panic setting in. He turned back to the book. How the hell did it get here? It had been hidden in a drawer in Sam’s room and locked up. 

Dean turned towards the book one last time. 

“Fuck this,” he spat, and with a furious jerk of his wrist, he slammed it shut.

A horrific, inhuman roar blasted through the bunker, echoing off the walls, reverberating through the rooms, exploding light bulbs and sending books shooting off the shelves in the library. 

Dean had to brace himself on the table as he screamed and clapped his hands over his ears, ducking as a chair went flying through the air, one of many, which slammed against the opposite wall and exploded into dozens of pieces.

In the chaos, Dean spun around, his eyes searching for Cas. 

His friend was being lifted off the ground, limp like a rag doll, back arched, his head lolled back, his eyes glazed over, his mouth slack.

A voice, a voice straight from the depths of Hell, echoed around the bunker. 

_“He’ll be mine!_ ” it shrieked. _“I will have him completely and you are powerless to stop it. I will reap and take souls with his bare hands, I will rip and tear flesh with his teeth, and I will drench him in blood for the rest of eternity! I will be inside him, I will make him mine! I will have him, he will be marked. The ritual will be complete. THE RITUAL WILL BE COMPLETE!”_

Books and chairs abruptly dropped to the floor and Dean barely managed to push off the table and run in time to catch Castiel, whose body dropped suddenly, falling toward the floor. 

Dean didn’t manage to catch him, but instead he broke the trajectory of his fall, sending them both sliding across the floor and tumbling down the steps into the war room. 

Kevin and Sam stumbled out from the side corridor and into the war room, their eyes wild and frightened. Sam had a gun in his hand and Kevin held the tablets close to his chest, panting.

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, stumbling towards his brother. Dean was pushing himself up, pressing a hand to his face, pushing away blood as it poured out of his nose. It felt broken and his eyes were welling up from a pain. He’d smacked the back of his head on a table leg.

Dean sat back on his heels and waved Sam away as he knelt by his side. 

Dean choked out, panicked, “No, Sam; _Cas_. Go check on Cas. God… God, Sam, is he okay?”

Cas was on his back, his eyes rolled back into his head so only the whites of his eyes showed through fluttering lashes. He moaned as his body wracked with violent tremors and a small sputter of blood dripped down over his lips and chin. His cheekbone and forehead above his brow were bleeding, skin peeled and scratched where it had skidded across the floor. 

Sam left Dean, rushing over to Cas, kneeling beside him. When Sam’s hands fell on his shoulders, Castiel arched up with a horrified, hoarse gasp, and his eyes rolled back down, white to blue. He blinked rapidly and looked around in confusion.

“Cas?” Dean gasped. “Cas, are you okay?”

Sam had Cas by the arm, wrenching him up so he was sitting on his feet. 

Cas swayed and wiped at his mouth, blood streaking up his arm as he did so. His eyes were wild, but not like before. This time he was lucid, eyes darting around at everyone in terror.

“What’s happening?” Cas choked, fresh blood pouring from his mouth. He coughed, and Sam tried to hold him upright as he swayed on his knees and fell sideways onto his hip. “What’s ha-happening here? How did I get here?”

“What the fuck is going on?!” Kevin exclaimed hysterically from the doorway, shaking. “I was only asleep for two seconds before I woke up and the whole place was shaking! And what the fuck was that voice?”

Judging by the look on his face, Sam seemed to be wondering the same thing. He and Dean exchanged worried heavy looks before Dean used the war table as support to stand up. Sam helped Cas to his feet, his hand still wrapped around his arm to steady him. 

“The book,” Dean spat out, spitting nose blood from his mouth onto the floor. “Cas read from the book.”

Everyone turned to look at Cas, who looked just as alarmed. 

“I… I did what?”

Sam’s head snapped back to Dean. “That’s impossible, Dean. The book is in my room. I checked before I went to sleep. My door is locked when I sleep, Dean. I only just went to sleep like fifteen minutes ago. There’s no w _—_ ”

“IT’S RIGHT THERE!” Dean bellowed, pointing with fury into the library, his hand shaking. 

Dragging Cas with him, Sam stepped towards the stairs into the library. Kevin followed cautiously while Dean spat blood onto the floor and wiped his nose on his sleeve, green eyes flickering up into the library, swirling with anger. 

As Kevin, Cas, and Sam took a few steps into the library, their hearts all collectively fell. Sam released Cas, taking an apprehensive step forward. Cas leaned on the door frame.

Surrounded by broken wood, shattered pieces of stained glass lamps, and shreds of torn up library books, the malicious tome sat untouched and unharmed at the end of the nearest table.

Cas fell to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NO!
> 
> Shit is getting real, y'all.


	10. Chapter 10

Steam curled up from three piping hot mugs of coffee as Sam set them down on the wooden kitchen table. He slid onto the bench and leaned on his elbow, digging his fingers into his eyes, massaging them and sighing heavily.

Kevin sat across from him, staring into the flames of a flickering candle, following a drip of wax as it lurched down the side and hardened before it hit the table top. Kevin’s finger tapped incessantly on the surface of one of the stone tablets.

He tore his eyes away from the candle and exhaled heavily, shaking his head at Sam. “Why can’t stuff ever be normal? What is wrong with you people?”

Sam released a drawn out exasperated, exhausted groan, still rubbing at his eyes. “Dude, you’re telling me.”

“How,” Kevin asked, having an existential crisis of sorts, “did we manage to attract trouble this big when we were locked in this bunker for weeks _with the sole purpose of avoiding trouble_?”

“I don’t know.”

Kevin stared wide-eyed at nothing. “How the fuck did I end up with you crazy people?”

“Watch your fucking language,” Dean snapped as he entered the kitchen.

Dean’s heavy footsteps thumped down the steps into the kitchen, clicking off his flashlight and placing it down onto the table forcefully. He dropped down heavily beside Kevin, wrapping his hands around a mug and glaring into it without taking a sip of coffee.

“How’s Cas?” Sam asked, his voice hushed.

Dean’s jaw clenched.

“Says he can hardly remember anything, keeps talking about a ‘fog’,” he murmured bitterly. Dean traced the handle of his mug with his finger, his eyes darkening with growing anger. “He was pretty freaked out, pretty out of it. I… gave him a Valium, so he should be out until tomorrow.”

Sam and Kevin sighed. Sam rested his face against his fist, watching his brother. Dean looked like he was practically thrumming with anger, his shoulders tense and his jaw tight.

“What happened in there?” Sam asked, finally able to ask his brother.

Dean was quiet. He just kept running his finger over the handle of his mug, licking his bottom lip, stalling for time. Finally, he looked up at Sam from the cup.

“I already told you what happened.”

Sam blinked at his brother expectantly. “Okay… but you only said he read from the book.”

“Then you know all I know, okay?” Dean’s eyes narrowed. The origin of his anger was suddenly clear when he asked, “How did he get his hands on the book, Sam?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed right back. “Are you seriously mad at me right now? As if this is my fault?”

Dean forgot about the coffee, his hand coming up to point accusingly across the table at his brother. “You had one fucking job, Sam. It was to keep the book safe, away from Cas.”

“My door was locked, Dean!” Sam exclaimed, but then lowered his voice when Dean raised a pissed off shushing finger to his lips, quickly glancing back over his shoulder to the hallway leading to the bedroom where Cas sleeping. Sam continued, quieter, “The door was locked. I checked before bed. And it was in a drawer. I took precautions. How the hell was I supposed to know that they weren’t enough?”

“Well, how did he get his hands on it, then?” Dean hissed.

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Sam hissed back, leaning towards his brother. “I was in the room, sleeping with the door locked. Fuck me for not considering the book would just get up and walk out _—_ ”

Kevin held up his palms, one facing each brother. “Chill out, guys. Jeez. Are we all forgetting it’s a _magic_ book? Are we really surprised hiding it under some of Sam’s underwear and closing a door wasn’t enough to stop it from, uh, you know, doing creepy evil book stuff? Whatever ‘creepy evil book stuff’ even means.”

Both brothers raised their coffee to their lips, glaring across the table at each other. The tension in the kitchen was uncomfortable. Kevin cleared his throat again, scratching at his head as he looked between them.

“What do you think the voice meant? It said something like ‘he’ll be mine’ or whatever.”

“And something about a ritual?” Sam added, looking between Dean and Kevin. “He kept saying something like ‘I’ll be inside him’.”

Dean choked on his coffee.

Sam pursed his lips and shook his head, his eyes narrowing. “Now is a really bad time for your sense of humor.”

Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, Dean’s eyes darkened. “That’s not where my mind went, Sam.”

“First time for everything, I guess,” Sam uttered coldly.

Dean’s shoulders squared and his eyes suddenly blazed. Sam matched his stance. Kevin’s head turned back and forth as he looked from one angry Winchester to the other.

“Guys, chill!”

“What exactly is your problem, Sam?”

“Sorry if I’m not happy about the tone you’re taking with me about the book.”

Dean’s teeth were bared and he leaned forward to reply, but Kevin broke them up yet again, interjecting. “Okay, guys, you need to relax. We gotta figure this out because shit is escalating and we’ve only got one page translated.”

Putting their claws away, Dean and Sam shot each other final annoyed glares, before Dean veered them back on topic.

“What does the page, the one he read from, say exactly?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded at Kevin, “You have the notes still?”

Tapping at the stone tablets still, Kevin frowned, his eyes nervous. “Yeah, I got ‘em. They’re in my room.”

When he didn’t make a move to get up, Dean raised his eyebrows at the prophet and said sarcastically, “Uh, so you wanna go get ‘em, then?”

Dark brown eyes darted from brother to brother, then Kevin shrugged. “I’m… kind of scared to go alone.”

Sam exhaled heavily while Dean reeled back a bit, looking offended. “Excuse me?”

“Dean, don’t _—_ ” Sam started, but Dean raised a hand to shush him.

“I’m sorry, scared of what?” Dean’s eyes narrowed.

Kevin’s fingers fiddled nervously in his lap. His eyes darted to the corridor with their bedrooms.

“I mean, he’s doing weird shit and then forgetting about it. Cas hasn’t really been all there lately, and now with the voice and the ‘reaping’ and ‘tearing flesh with his teeth’, and the ‘blood’ thing _—_ ”

Dean’s mouth was parted, shaking his head. Sam reached over and grabbed Dean’s arm, feeling a harsh scolding on the horizon.

“Dean, Kevin’s allowed to feel kind of apprehensive _—_ ”

Dean looked at his brother, then Kevin, eyes disbelieving. “Are you guys kidding? This is Cas. _Cas_. He needs us to figure this out for him, not be scared of him.”

“I’m sorry,” Kevin blurted out. “I know. I… You’re totally right.”

“He’s your friend, Kevin _—_ ” Dean tried to continue, but Sam’s grip on his arm tightened.

“That’s enough, Dean,” Sam commanded, his voice firm. “We’re all here for Cas, okay? It’s not just you. But we gotta be smart. Kevin is right; he’s been weird lately. And now we know for sure the book has some kind of hold on him, and you told us he’s been hearing voices, calling him to it. Whatever he read tonight could be some really bad mojo.”

Dean’s gaze dropped down to the table. He looked resigned, and maybe a bit ashamed, though in typical Dean style, he just shrugged and barely nodded.

Sam let his hand slip off his brother’s arm and stood. He walked over to the steel island in the middle of the kitchen, picked up the evil book from the cold surface and dropped it down onto the table. Then he turned on his heel and made his way down the corridor towards the bedrooms. After some sorting around Kevin’s messy desk, Sam found the notes and retreated back to the kitchen.

Dean was on the other side of the table now, across from Kevin, flipping through the book with pure hatred and revulsion glittering in his dark eyes. Sam sat down beside him, eyeing the pages distastefully.

“This thing is so fucked up,” Dean mused darkly. “Look at these pictures _—_ like, what is this?”

He pointed to a twisted, inky illustration of a creature with long, jagged nails, gripping the body of a man whose face was contorted in pain, standing in a pool of water. The man was held against the creatures body, black tendrils wrapped around his limbs, curled up his jaw and into his mouth.

Dean flipped to another page, this one a familiar picture, the illustration being the one Dean had seen before, the one featuring the mutilated man with slices crossing his body.

On the following page, a man was carving sigils into his skin, blood pooling down onto his kneeling legs and onto the ground around him. Someone had scratched his eyes out with a pen so badly that the page was punctured and ripped.

The three men were silent as Dean continued to flip through the book. Someone had written in the margins in scratchy writing - writing Dean recognized from the scrolls. Notes told them to ‘burn, bury, or kill’. Dean’s adam’s apple bobbed precariously and when the colour from his lips drained, he shut the book.

“What do your notes say?” he asked, his voice thin.

Sam pulled the papers close, and Kevin pulled a chair up so that he could read the notes right-side up.

“Okay, so with what we could figure out and with what Crowley could translate for us, here’s what we got,” Sam pushed a piece of lined paper over to Dean, who picked it up with slightly trembling fingers. “Don’t… Don’t read it out loud, just in case.”

“Yeah, we only need _one_ of us tearing flesh with our teeth,” Kevin joked. Sam and Dean looked up at him, completely unamused.

Dean then looked down, his eyes sweeping over the page.

_I evoke the _____ of souls up to earth,_

_to reap(?) souls and break the _____ between heaven and hell,_

_to bring all _____ down to earth._

_I will reap souls and swallow(?) for Him._

_Earth will be mine._

_Consent of the pure, blood of five._

_Rise._

Sam pointed to the question marks. “We’re kind of fuzzy on what those words meant. Crowley told us one thing, while our research told us another. We’re not really sure what to believe, but the gist is there.”

Dean merely nodded and murmured flatly, “Something bad is coming.”

“Something bad,” Kevin agreed. “Any time something _that_ ominous is followed by ‘Rise!’, it’s pretty much a guarantee that it’s bad.”

“The blanks are words we were really close to figuring out, so we didn’t ask Crowley. I didn’t want to risk asking him about symbols that were too close together, just in case he figured out what we were asking about. But,” Sam added hesitantly, “from what the voice said tonight, we pretty much know what’s going on.”

Dean rubbed his forehead, swallowing again. He fought down the stress-induced creep up his esophagus. Clearing his throat, Dean concluded quietly, “Something wants to come to earth to reap souls. They want to take over the world _—_ like what the fuck else is new in our lives?”

“And that thing,” Sam said, “wants in Cas.”

“Consent of the pure,” Dean echoed, gears turning and clicking in his mind. “Cas said something about purity earlier.” As Dean looked up and around at his friends, they stared at him, brows furrowed. To clarify, he continued, “In the library… When I asked if he read from the book, Cas said he was the only one, that he was pure. What… what do you think that means?”

Sam looked uneasy. He twisted his hands together for a second, picking at his nail, before he winced. “I mean, how true is that, though? I know Cas is a good guy, but, uh, he’s killed a lot of people.”

“What if it means, like, uh, virginity?” Kevin asked, visibly uncomfortable. “Is he…”

“No,” Dean said at the same time Sam said, ‘Yeah.”

Sam’s head turned quickly towards Dean, looking shocked. “What?”

A strange look flitted across Sam’s face, and Dean could have sworn his eyes flicked down to Dean’s crotch, as if asking if Dean had _—_

“He was married,” Dean said with a calmness that he absolutely did not feel. “He was married to that Daphne chick, when, uh, you were in that asylum place. Before he saved you. They were married for a few months.”

“And you think they…”

The sour feeling in Dean’s stomach got worse. “Yeah, Sam. I think they did.”

Sam continued to survey Dean in that a strangely curious way, but Kevin interrupted again.

“So,” he asked, gesturing with disgust to the book, “the voice said the ritual ‘will be complete’. Do you think it meant it wasn’t finished then, the ritual?”

“We can only hope that’s what it meant,” Sam sighed. He peered at Dean again. “Did anything specific happen in the library, y’know, to make you feel like the ritual, whatever it was, wasn’t finished?”

Dean’s stomach turned again. How could he tell them? How could he twist it so that they didn’t know Cas kissed him and practically begged him to be inside him.

He heard Cas’ desperate pleading, _“I’m open for you. I’ll let you in. I want you inside me.”_

Then, _“I’m empty… I’m nothing without him.”_

Dean looked between Kevin and Sam, knowing they expected an answer from him.

He also recalled the voice, that reverberating, resounding deep, sinister bellow; “ _I will have him completely… I will be inside him, I will make him mine! The ritual will be complete. The ritual will be complete!”_

“I don’t think it was finished,” he finally said. “I was just walking back to my room and Cas was there in the library. He kind of just walked up to me and started saying that, uh… he said he was empty, that he was ‘nothing without him’. I think, if something wants in Cas, that it isn’t there yet.”

Sam looked puzzled. “So, what, you think reading from the book wasn’t enough?”

“Consent of the pure, _”_ Kevin recited, shuddering.

“You don’t think he consented?”

“Dunno. Kinda sounds like he might, though,” Kevin commented darkly. “If he feels like he’s nothing without this thing, that he’s empty, maybe he… wants to be possessed or whatever, y’know?”

“Dean,” Sam asked with a strange gentleness, “did Cas say anything else?”

Maybe Sam felt Dean’s discomfort. Maybe Sam knew Dean was hiding something. Of course, Sam probably didn’t know Dean was hiding the fact that he was recalling the memory of Cas’ hands on him and lips against his own. Sam probably thought his discomfort was with seeing his best friend manipulated by some dark entity, which wasn’t untrue. But selfishly, and with substantial guilt about it, Dean was sick to his stomach that Cas had only acted that way under the influence of the supernatural and not because he’d actually wanted him. It was so stupid and a really bad time for Dean to think about this, but a feeling eerily similar to heartbreak radiated in his chest.

He tried to focus on Sam’s question though.

“Uh, yeah, he might’ve said something about it.” _(I’m open for you. I’ll let you in. I want you inside me.)_ He felt sick. He mumbled, “I mean, I dunno, I don’t really remember.”

God, he was being so stupid. _Just tell them_.

Dean ran his hand over his mouth and he nodded. “Yeah, he said something. I think he thought I was someone else. He said, he, uh… he said ‘I’m open for you, I’ll let you in.’”

And it was completely fucked up, Dean knew it, but he didn’t tell Sam and Kevin that Cas had wanted Dean inside him. Maybe he did it to protect Cas’ dignity, but a very loud part of him that he was trying to repress felt shame about it. He wanted to keep the memory of Cas speaking those words all to himself. He didn’t want Kevin and Sam imagining Cas saying those words. They were for him. And it was fucked up because it wasn’t intimate or romantic, and it was abundantly clear now that Cas hadn’t even meant to direct the words at Dean.

But still.

Sam exhaled for a long few seconds, scratching at his scalp and running his hands through his hair.

“Okay,” Sam breathed. Then he repeated, “Okay. We’ll have to work fast, this whole situation clearly is escalating faster than we thought. We should all try to get some sleep, then in the morning, we talk to Cas. Maybe he’ll remember more then.”

None of them moved to leave though. They all stared at the book.

“What do we do with it in the meantime?” Kevin asked hesitantly. “We know it can just disappear now, go where it wants.”

“Well,” Dean uttered quietly, “we know it wants to get to Cas, so I’ll just keep an eye on Cas.”

“Dean, you gotta sleep too. When was the last time you slept?”

Despite the fact that Dean hadn’t slept more than an hour every night for maybe a week, the small huff of laughter from Dean was humourless. He didn’t answer his brother’s question and instead, he said, “As if I could sleep right now. It’s fine, you two get some shut-eye. I’ll handle Cas.”

Dean walked over to Castiel’s room, pausing to look over his shoulder, making sure Sam and Kevin weren’t following him.

He surveyed Castiel’s empty bedroom, eyes sweeping over the rumpled sheets, before shutting the door. Making the short trip to his own room, Dean stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

Cas was sleeping on his side on top of the blankets, turned towards the mattress, his one arm outstretched, the other tucked under the pillow by his head. Even deep in sleep he looked utterly exhausted.

He hadn’t told Sam and Kevin that Cas was already in Dean’s room. It was none of their business, he didn’t owe them an explanation… Really, he could say that he was just watching over him and being close like this made it easier.

Cas hadn’t seemed to care and had actually seemed grateful not to be in his own room.

Still, he thought closing both of their doors would minimize any questioning. The peculiar way Sam had looked at Dean as they discussed Cas’ hypothetical virginity left Dean feeling vulnerable.

Despite telling Sam and Kevin that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, the soft lighting of the singular bedside candle lit behind Cas, and his ridiculously poor sleeping habits made his eyes feel heavy. Cas was sleeping so heavily, he looked so comfortable with how his body seemed like it was one with the mattress. It drew Dean in, made him ache for the same slumber.

He found himself crawling across the mattress and lowering himself carefully down onto the pillow beside Cas’, biting back a moan as the mattress welcomed him like a hug made of memory foam. His weary bones felt like they trembled with exhaustion. Dean shifted on the bed, digging his shoulder into the mattress, getting more comfortable.

Once he was settled, his head heavy on the pillow, lying on his side, Dean watched Cas sleep.

It seemed ridiculous that at some point, Dean had wondered if he was physically attracted to Cas. _Of course_ he had been. Because clearly, Castiel was beautiful. He was magnificent. Human or not, he’d always been beautiful.

Maybe, Dean thought, he’d always known that. Maybe the humanity just made to easier for Dean to rationalize and for him acknowledge these feelings. Cas was more visibly human now. He had his very own mannerisms. His hair was just a bit longer and his skin a bit more oily. And his stubble grew in faster these days, and the need for sleep made him look pretty tired a lot of the time. He had a natural red tint to his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and when he got nervous or upset, his chest and neck got patchy. All of these human things just made him more beautiful.

In the dim light and dead silence, beside Cas, Dean felt safe. Even with something trying to possess Cas, he still felt safe beside him. Dean swallowed thickly and dared reach out.

His fingers, gentle like a soft warm breeze, caressed the tips of Cas’ damp hair, admiring how the brown hair curled on the end from the humid heat radiating off Cas’ skin. Not wanting to wake him, Dean tenderly gripped locks of hair between his fingers and tucked them behind Cas’ ear. The strands were too short to stay put, but Dean did it anyway, searching for an excuse to touch him.

With touches like whispers, he ran his fingertips over Cas’ hair, reveling in the softness. His fingers hovered over Cas’ face, and with bated breath, he ran his fingers over Cas’ lips.

“See?” Dean whispered and maybe he sounded a bit exposed. “I like your vessel just fine. I like it just fine, Cas.”

Just “fine”. Like, so much that it hurt.

Cas shifted in his sleep, sighing yet sounding troubled. Dean pulled his hand away and rested it flat on the mattress between them.

He wanted to tell Cas this stuff to his face, when Cas could hear him and the words had effect, but doing that would mean he’d have to acknowledge what was between them. And Dean was frightened. He felt cowardly but he was frightened. What if Cas didn’t want him?

Dean shifted his face against the pillow, watched Cas’ shoulders rise and fall, and listened to his breathing in the silence. The only other sounds in the bunker were Kevin and Sam’s quiet goodnights and their feet shuffling past Dean’s door as they headed to bed.

Dean drank in the opportunity to stare at Cas, unburdened by the presence of others or any kind of social expectations. He admired Cas’ long brown eyelashes, and he very nearly ran his thumb over the subtle dip in Cas’ chin.

Fuck. He wanted to touch him so badly, he wanted Cas’ eyes to open and actually see _him_. He wanted those eyes to open and for it to be all Cas in there. No fever, no Valium, no terror. He just wanted Cas to be there, to look back at him so that when he kissed him for real next time, he would be able to know it was a kiss that he meant just for Dean.

It was unfair, Dean thought. It was unfair he’d gotten a taste of Cas’ lips but it hadn’t really been for him. It was unfair that he couldn’t lean forward now and do it again. Dean felt robbed. He felt a grief for something he never even had.

“Cas,” Dean whispered out loud again with a soft waiver in his voice that he couldn’t control, “don’t let him, whoever he is, don’t let him in, man. What...” To Dean’s dismay, he was choked up, his eyes burning. “Whatever _thing_ , whatever… I dunno, _vulnerability_ it’s using against you. We _—_ we can figure it out together, okay? Just don’t say yes to it.”

A tear slipped over the bridge of Dean’s nose, landing on his pillow with a tiny, audible thud.

Cas released a small groan, shifting ever so slightly as if to make himself smaller. When Cas’ face twisted into an expression of torment and even in sleep tears dampened his lash line, Dean pressed two fingers to his forehead.

“It’s okay, Cas. It’s okay. I’ll watch over you.”

Castiel’s eyes opened very slowly.

His body felt heavy, like his bones had been replaced with lead. His stomach felt like it was weighed down with rocks. But despite this, Castiel felt the encompassing, aching emptiness still; it hollowed out his chest and made it feel like every cold breath rattled around in his empty vessel.

When his eyes focused, he found himself staring into Dean Winchester’s extraordinary eyes. The natural icy-green mixed with the warm orange flickering of candlelight had Dean’s eyes looking gold. A bright, yellow-flecked golden. Castiel stared into golden eyes as he was pulled from sleep. Dean’s fingers were pushing hair behind his ear gently, the pads of his fingers brushing against his lobe as they retreated back to push more damp locks behind Castiel’s ear.

Castiel opened his mouth to…to what? Apologize to Dean for reading from the book, for ruining everything again? Or maybe he’d opened his mouth to beg Dean to make this emptiness go away.

Either way, any words that had been trying to come out were caught by Dean’s lips as he pushed himself up onto his elbow and leaned down, pressing his lips against Castiel’s.

As he kissed him, as every breath hitched, and as Dean’s hands pushed through Castiel’s hair, the emptiness was lifting off of him like steam. Castiel wanted to weep with relief. It was like with every slip of Dean’s lips against his own, he felt less and less anguished.

Dean’s tongue slipped between Castiel's lips, so he brushed his own against Dean’s, his breath catching in his throat.

Dean’s lips kissed his chin and his jaw, teeth dragging down his neck and over his collarbone. When that warm, soft tongue dragged down Castiel’s sternum and teeth nipped at his stomach, Castiel bucked up, whimpering. The emptiness was being pulled from him like tendrils curling up off of him and up around Dean, need drawing them together.

He felt drugged, drunk _—_ something wasn’t right but he didn’t care at all _—_ his eyes rolling back as Dean’s fingertips dragged down his hips, catching his waistband and pulling it down over his thighs, nails scratching deliciously over his legs. He didn’t think to ask what was happening this time, too dizzy in the sensations to question why Dean was doing this to him.

When Dean’s tongue dragged torturously up his cock and swirled around the head, Castiel was lost. His head tipped back on the pillow and his breaths were wrenched from him. Castiel raised his hands and buried them in his own hair, gripping the locks tightly, moaning.

After the tip of his cock hit the back of Dean’s throat, nestled there warmly, like he’d always belonged there, Castiel finally spoke. Through ragged panting, he choked out, “Dean, oh g... D-Dean. What _—_ ”

“See?” Dean hummed, his slick, swollen lips brushing against the tip of Castiel’s cock as he whispered, his voice raspy and rumbling. “I like your vessel just fine. Just fine.”

Castiel wanted to see him. He struggled against the feeling of exhaustion and pulled himself up even though he thought the exertion might make him pass out. With difficulty, he lifted his head up, looking down at Dean.

Dean stared back at him with pale golden eyes and a smile that was simultaneously arousing and frightening. Something wasn’t right _—_ those weren’t Dean’s eyes. Where was the green, why was Dean doing th _—_

Dean’s hand was curled around Castiel’s length, slipping up and down languidly, rubbing the tip over his slippery lips. Castiel didn’t think he would ever feel this good ever again.

“Let me be inside you,” Dean coerced, his voice reverberating. “Say yes.”

Castiel opened his mouth to answer but no sound came out as the world shifted. Dean shifted in and out of his vision, swallowed by blackness. Castiel’s head tipped back and for a moment he was drowning, his mouth filled with mud. It rose up his throat and onto his tongue _—_

The fog cleared. Dean had him over the edge of the bed, their knees on the hard floor, their bodies rocking forward. Castiel grasped onto the blankets, panting hard and fast as Dean’s fingers worked him open, slick and delicious. Dean’s chest was pressed to his back, his lips dragging over Castiel’s shoulders and his neck, and over the shell of his ear, leaving an intoxicating heat in their wake.

“Do you see how good you feel?” Dean growled in his ear, his voice echoing, overlapping over itself. It filled Castiel’s head, mixing in with the loud _—_ too loud _—_ sounds of his own dragging breaths, rasped out, rough and choppy. He felt both impossibly full and frustratingly empty as Dean’s fingers pushed into his body and pulled back out, agonizingly slow. “Do you see how it might feel to be filled? For me to be in you, Castiel?”

Castiel’s head bowed down between his propped up elbows, pressing down onto the mattress, wanting to scream. Dean pulled away, leaving Castiel feeling cold for only moments before his hot, slick tongue licked up Castiel’s spine between his shoulder blades and up to the nape of his neck.

Castiel gasped like he had been held underwater.

“Yes!” Castiel exclaimed, his voice wrecked. “Yes, yes. Do it.”

The world shifted again, and the taste of mud slid over his tongue. He feared it was coming out of his nose, that he’d choke on it. He gagged and struggled for air, suffocating _—_

Dean’s arms were strong as he lifted Castiel off his feet like he was weightless. He walked them forward, and even though it was painful when Castiel’s lower back hit the top of his dresser, Dean was holding him steady in his arms, guiding Castiel to hold on to his shoulders. Their lips met and Dean growled possessively, jerking Castiel closer to him as he began slipping, his shaking, aching legs not quite strong enough to wrap tightly around Dean’s waist.

Castiel’s head lolled forward, feeling the heaviest he’d felt so far, heavy with need and sick from the emptiness that twisted in his stomach. He needed something, he needed Dean closer, he needed to be filled _—_

Dean lurched him up again, and when Cas came down, Dean slid inside him, thick and hot.

Finally, god, finally, Castiel was free.

The heat and the emptiness were lifted, his limbs infused with strength and power. His limbs buzzed and the darkness coiled inside him unfurled, rushing through him, making his blood pound in his ears. Castiel was vaguely aware of the smile on his lips, and the laughter bubbling in his chest. His eyes rolled back, and his head tipped towards the ceiling, allowing Dean access to his neck. Hungrily, Dean’s teeth bit down on his pulse point, growling.

“Do you see, angel?” Dean snarled, his voice twisted, deeper, echoing. “Do you see how good this feels? We belong together.”

The voice was terrifying. But Dean was thick and with every thrust and roll of his hips, Cas felt euphoric, like he’d found his grace, like he was something meaningful and powerful again. It built inside him, compounding and filling every inch of his vessel with pleasure.

He tried to look at Dean, but his lips were captured again, tongues slipping against each other. Dean’s teeth dragged along Castiel’s jaw and it very nearly sent him over the edge.

“Dean, I’m _—_ I’m gonna…” Cas could barely gasp it out, his arms sliding tighter around Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s nails left painful red trails down his back but he hardly noticed.

“This is a dream, Castiel. Out there, you’ll have to come to me,” the voice that wasn’t Dean’s snarled. “Come to me. Come. I want you to come.”

God, he was so close. It felt overwhelming. Castiel turned his head, Dean’s face pressed against the side of his, his hot breath feeling almost like it burnt on Castiel's’ neck. Though his lids felt impossibly heavy, Castiel opened his eyes, looking across the room at the mirror over his sink.

“Come.”

Castiel suddenly froze, his body going cold. In the mirror, he watched the creature, the intruder from the bunker, the one with the knife, covered in blood, its white eyes wide, trained on Cas’ face. It wasn’t Dean. It wasn’t Dean.

And his own eyes. His own eyes as they stared back at him in the mirror… they were completely white as well.

“Come to me!” it shrieked. “I’ll watch over you. You just have to come to me!”

Cas turned his head, though suddenly it weighed a thousand pounds again, and looked down at himself. He was covered in blood. Mud ran off his body in thick rivulets.

With a scream bubbling in his throat, his gaze lifted and he was met with white, sinister eyes and a wide, demented grin.

_“Dean!”_

“Dean!”

Dean nearly went careening off the bed, ripped from a nightmare by a blood-curdling scream.

His bed trembled as there was a commotion. Dean struggled to find the light, his room completely engulfed in blackness. The room smelled like smoke, and he remembered there had been a candle at Cas’ bedside. As he felt around for the lamplight chain, hoping the power was on now, he vaguely registered how lucky he was that he wasn’t being awoken by a candle-ignited raging fire.

Thankfully, the lamp clicked on and Dean could clearly see Cas, seated up in bed, looking around wildly, his eyes wide, thick tears tumbling down his cheeks. Sweat rolled down his temples. His hair was completely soaked at his hairline.

“Cas?”

Dean’s fingers barely wrapped around Cas’ arm before Cas was wrenching his arm away and he threw himself off the bed, falling hard on his knees on the floor. Seemingly, he didn’t feel the pain because he scrambled across the floor and pressed his back against the wall, drawing up his knees.

“Get away from me.”

The words sounded like they were ripped painfully from the depths of whatever torment Cas was suffering.

Frozen. Dean was frozen to the spot, staring at Cas anxiously.

Castiel looked absolutely wild, his face slick with sweat, like he’d been running for hours. His skin was white and his lips looked grey, the only colour in his face was the red and purple smudges under his eyes. His lashes were clumped together, dark and wet, doing nothing to stop the seemingly continuous rivers of tears running Cas’ face, dripping over his jaw and onto his chest. His tremors made the chest of drawers by his elbow rattle against the wall.

Dean hadn't ever seen anyone look this bad that wasn’t already dead.

Slowly, Dean raised himself off the bed, his hands raised like he was approaching a frightened animal.

“Cas?” Dean repeated again, slowly and steadily, but quiet. “...Cas?” Hey, buddy, it’s me.”

“ _Liar,_ ” Castiel hissed. The hate dripping off his tongue and roiling in his savage-looking eyes made Dean physically reel back.

Swallowing the urge to be sick, unable to deal with the vitriol directed at him by his best friend, Dean took a second to breathe. He was still waking up and his body was utterly exhausted to the point he almost felt broken. He was having a hard time processing everything, but he knew he had to get his shit together for Cas.

Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, kneeling on the hard flooring. Dean pressed his hand to his chest, nodding slowly. “It’s me, Cas; Dean.”

Castiel went from looking enraged and frightened to destroyed, his face crumpling into a look of despair. When he started to openly weep, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes, Dean had to channel all the self restraint inside of him not to rush forward.

“Cas! Shit… Jesus, Cas, it’s me. It’s Dean.”

For some reason, this only made Cas cry harder.

 _Fuck this,_ Dean thought, and he rushed forward, putting a hand on Cas’ shoulder, the other on his knee.

Mistake. Cas cried out and swung at him. Dean, by some miracle, blocked his punch and grabbed his wrist, holding it tightly as Cas tried to wrench his arm away.

“ _No_ ,” Cas moaned.

Dean cried out when Cas kicked out at him, getting him right in the stomach.

“Stop!” Dean wheezed, his fingers curling around Cas’ arm tighter. He had to sit on Cas’ feet to get him to stop kicking. “Stop, Cas! God, you’re gonna hurt yourself! Knock it off!”

Cas’ eyes looked up at him, eyes wide. He looked about ready to swing at Dean with his other arm, but Cas froze, eyes darting over Dean’s face.

Much to Dean’s relief, the commotion stilled and for the most part, Cas relaxed in his grip, except for the violent trembling. Dean loosened his grip just a bit, though he was ready to defend himself if Cas went psycho again.

They sat together on the floor panting for a long time before Cas finally spoke.

“Y-your eyes are green.”

“Yeah. They are.” Dean nodded, fighting down hysterical, nervous laughter. For some ridiculous, silly reason, Dean felt compelled to add, “And your eyes are blue.”

For some reason, this upset Cas, who pressed a hand to his mouth and sobbed. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to curl forward, his other hand pressed to his chest.

“Whoa, buddy,” Dean said, reaching out to him. He pulled him close, away from the wall and Cas clung to him, arms gripping his shoulders so tightly that it hurt.

“It’s okay.” Dean rubbed Cas’ back, unbothered by the sweat actively soaking through his shirt. Dean’s squeezed his eyes closed and he thought he too might burst into tears, a mixture of relief and bone-deep exhaustion making his eyes burn. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m s-so confused,” Castiel rasped, his teeth chattering. “S-so confused. I d-don’t know what’s r-real.”

Dean pulled him impossibly close, his arms wrapped around Cas’ ribs, hands curling around his sides. They rocked a bit from side to side, legs tangled together.

“This is real, Cas,” he reassured. “Whatever it was, it was just a nightmare.”

Cas pulled back, arms still around Dean’s neck. That wild, far away look in his eyes was back and Dean struggled not to back away, the pit in his stomach filling him with apprehension. Maybe even fear. For the first time in a long time, Dean wanted to be away from Cas.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered, his voice shaking. His electric-blue eyes were wide, tears spilling over his lashes. He leaned in and Dean had to resist recoiling. Cas’ breath was stuttered against his ear as he wheezed, “S-something is c-coming for me.”

Dean felt suddenly cold. Castiel pulled back again and Dean watched his face as Cas’ terrified eyes darted around the room like he saw something Dean didn’t.

“And I t-think it’s in here with us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bury, burn, cut off head" are from the movie, when Eric and David peruse the book. Also from the movie was the first illustration in the book with the black coils, but the other images were my own creations. 
> 
> Also, _"...and I think it's in here with us"_ is from the movie as well. IT IS MY FAVOURITE LINE. I legitimately got goosebumps every time I watched Mia say that in the movie. Go check out the trailer, I know for a fact she says that in the red band version. 
> 
> How's the fic so far? Are you creeped out? Lemme know in the comments. ;)


	11. Chapter 11

“Cas.”

Sam and Dean, sat on either side of a table in the library, staring at Cas, who sat in an old dusty armchair they’d found in the basement. Kevin pushed around a broom, collecting bits of wood and glass from the floor and tables. Half of their chairs were basically firewood now, so they had to make do with whatever they could find in storage and from other rooms.

Cas had his feet up on the chair, elbows propped on his knees and fingers tangled in his hair. He bounced once leg restlessly. He swallowed repeatedly and breathed carefully. He looked stressed, to say the least.

“Cas,” Sam repeated again gently, pressing his fingers to one of Cas’ knees, which jerked away immediately. “Cas, you can’t leave.”

Cas’ eyes squeezed shut. Between his teeth, he growled, “I can’t stay here.”

Sam looked to Dean for backup, but his brother was looking down at his hands on the table, as his fingers tugged at a hangnail distractedly. Dean looked far away, his lips pressed into a tight line and his brow furrowed a bit.

“Where would you even go, Cas?” Sam asked, gesturing around the library.

“Anywhere but here.”

Cas’s hands dropped from his hair, and let his arms hang forward, his fingers grazing the table. He looked agitated and not all there, his eyes looking over their shoulders and around the room, like he was frightened something was going to jump out from behind the shelves.

“It wants me,” he tried to explain, finger tapping insistently on the table. His wide eyes darted from Sam to Dean, his throat convulsing as he swallowed hard. “I can’t be locked in this bunker anymore. It’s in here with us. I have to leave.”

“I know how you feel, Cas,” Kevin said as he picked up larger bits of wood and threw them into a black garbage bag. “But this is the safest place for you. Dean and Sam are right.”

Sam laughed with a huff. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

Kevin shot Sam an exasperated look. “Don’t mention it. Really.”

“I’m going insane,” Cas pleaded, fixing Sam with a wide-eyed gaze. “I can’t tell what’s real. This place is a jail. I want to leave, Sam. I want to leave.”

“A change of scenery isn’t gonna fix this,” Dean said quietly when he finally spoke up, leaning heavily on the table, staring down at the wooden surface with tired eyes. He looked almost as exhausted as Cas did. He glanced in Cas’ general direction and added, “And this isn’t a jail.”

“We’re better together,” Sam pressed, sounding confused. “There’s nothing for you out there.”

“There’s nothing for me in here,” Cas snapped back. Dean looked like he flinched, but it passed too quickly for Sam to tell why.

Sam sat back in his chair, running his hands through his hair and rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “Cas,” he sighed, “you have to stay here with us until we figure out what’s going on with this book. Look, clearly, you released something and it’s getting to you.”

“You said that it’s coming for you,” Dean said, sitting up in his chair, scrubbing at his lips with his fingers. His eyes finally met Cas’. “You have to stay here so that we can protect you from it, when ‘it’ comes.”

Cas pressed his palms into his eyes again, the bouncing of his leg picking up its pace. “It’s in here with us. I can feel it. I can see it lurking in the shadows, waiting for me. It’s stalking. It’s in the walls, I can hear it talking to me.”

Dean, Sam, and Kevin all exchanged looks. They didn’t hear a damn thing. They all looked around. There was no one but them in the room.

“What’s it saying?” Kevin asked, but Cas just shook his head, his chin trembling.

When he didn’t respond, Sam tried as well. “What, uh, what does it look like, Cas?”

“Is… is it like, right here?” Kevin stepped aside, looking around as if expecting the boogeyman to peek around his shoulder.

Palms still pressed against his eyes, Cas opened his mouth to respond, but a shaky hitched breath escaped instead. A red, patchy flush blossomed over the collar of his shirt, up his neck. He released a few quiet, ragged breaths in quick succession.

Sam opened his mouth to repeat his question, but Dean was up quickly, dragging his chair close to Cas. He fixed Sam with a fierce, stern look and shook his head.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Dean ordered angrily. “The interrogation stops. Give him a break.”

Sam’s eyebrows raised into his hairline, while Kevin nodded, looking away from Cas quickly with embarrassment.

“Right,” Sam agreed, shaking his head. “You’re right. Sorry. You guys probably had a rough night _—_ ” Dean’s jaw clenched and he looked down at the table, a peculiar look on his face.

Sam stood, pushing his chair under the table with a scrape. “Cas, you, uh, hungry? You haven’t eaten anything decent in days.”

Cas shook his head, eyes still hidden, mouth still clamped closed.

Dean and Sam exchanged worried looks. Sam cleared his throat. “Okay, well… I’ll go make something anyway. We can all eat breakfast and then pick this up again after.”

Sam looked between Dean and Cas, then swept out of the room.

“I’m, uh, gonna just take this trash out,” Kevin said awkwardly, clearing his throat and throwing a black plastic trash bag over his shoulder.

Dean kept his eyes trained on his trembling friend as Kevin left the library. They were blanketed in silence.

With gentle hands, he wrapped his fingers around Cas’ wrists and pulled his hands away from his eyes. The blue eyes looking back at him looked brighter than usual in contrast to the red rimming Cas’ lash line. While Cas didn’t cry, his eyes were coated in tears, pooling along his lashes, threatening to fall at any second.

“Please, Dean,” Cas whispered, tilting his head. The gesture made Dean’s stomach hurt.

“Cas, it’s not that easy. We… Look, we’ll figure this out together. We’ll put our heads together and reverse whatever _—_ ”

Cas’ legs slid off the chair, feet hitting the ground, and he leaned forward. Dean could have moved away, but he chose to sit completely still as Cas’ hands slipped over his face, cupping his cheeks. Dean fell silent. For a long moment, Dean held his breath, convinced Cas was going to kiss him.

But instead, Cas searched his eyes, single tears falling abruptly down his cheeks. In a wretched whisper, he repeated slowly, “Please help me. I can’t stay here anymore.”

Dean’s chin began to tremble and fuck, he could feel hot tears collecting in his own eyes. He could easily stop Cas from leaving, he could chain him up or tie him down. They could lock him away. They had all manner of cruel and unusual ways to keep him in the bunker, but Dean wasn’t going to let anyone do that to Cas unless it was their last resort. He knew if it came down to it, that would be what they had to do, but what he really wanted was for Cas to not want to go, to elect to stay in the bunker on his own. He wanted to make Cas feel safe here.

“Stay,” Dean replied simply, his shoulders twitching almost imperceptibly. “Please, Cas, just stay with me.”

He felt gutted and embarrassed, begging, and being so vulnerable. But Dean was desperate to have him want to stay. He also needed to be able to protect Cas. Whatever evil thing was fucking with Cas needed to be slaughtered, and Dean wanted to be the one to do it. If it was coming for Cas, it would have to go through him first.

Castiel held Dean’s gaze, shaking his head slowly. “No.”

Dean closed his eyes, pressing his mouth closed. God, what did he have to say to make Cas understand that he would fucking break if Cas left and something bad happened to him? Also the sting of rejection was fresh and sharp, and Dean was tired, so tired. He found that words poured from his mouth almost without his control.

“I need you to stay here,” Dean confessed. His heart hammered in his chest. He bit the bullet and added breathlessly, “Because if you try to leave, I can’t protect you. If you stay, I can, uh, I… Damn it, Cas. I want to take care of you. I need you to be okay. I’ll watch over you. ”

Whatever reaction he had expected from Cas, it wasn’t for him to stare at Dean’ in terror. Dean’s heart dropped.

“Why would you say that?” Cas asked strangely.

Dean stared at Castiel, his mouth agape for a second. Despite himself, Dean whispered, “Don’t… don’t pretend like you don’t know. You _—_ you know how I feel...”

Dean struggled, looking down at the floor, away from Cas. He was ripped open, exposed, and he’d been the one to do it. It was his own fault, but there was no escaping now. If any time was good, this was it _—_ the time when he had to convince Cas not to leave. Too many times he watched Cas leave and too many times he’d wished he’d said something to make him stay.

Dean finally tilted his head up. His hand came up around Cas’ wrists and he lifted himself out of the chair just an inch, just enough to close the distance between them. Summoning all of his courage, Dean kissed Cas.

Part of him expected Cas to yank away. He didn’t really expect Cas to kiss back, though he hoped _—_ God, he desperately hoped. He found his heart fluttering when Castiel didn’t pull back. The hands on his face began to slip up into his hair and Dean, despite feeling deceptively happy for the briefest of moments, felt a tear slide down his own cheek. Cas made a small noise as the kiss deepened.

But abruptly, Cas tugged himself back. Dean’s lips felt cold. He had to hold himself back from rushing forward again, chasing the welcoming heat of Cas’ mouth. Dean stared at Cas as he turned his head to the side, staring down hard at the floor. They sat there, frozen.

Then Cas’ hands fell away and his head bowed. One hand came up and covered his eyes.

“This isn’t real.”

Dean was the one to tilt his head this time, confused. “What?”

“This isn’t real,” Cas whispered. The hand covering his eyes shook.

“Cas...”

“He would never _—_ ” Cas choked, whatever he was about to say seemed to catch in his throat. “I remember…I remember everything.”

Dean reached out for his shoulder, trying to comfort him, but Cas sat up straight, pushing Dean’s hand away roughly. And then Dean was dizzy, his blood rushing through his veins in a terrifying thrumming way, at the pure hatred in the gaze Castiel had fixed on him.

“ _You._ You are poison,” Castiel seethed, rising to his feet. He stared at his own hands, and then down at his own body, shaking. “I _hate_ what you’ve done to me. L-Look at me, what I’m becoming. You’re corrupt.”

Cas looked up at Dean again. “D-Don’t ever touch me like that again. I will never want you.” Every word Castiel directed at him felt like a punch in the stomach. It echoed every self-loathing jab Dean had thought about himself since Hell. _The very touch of you corrupts_. And, the very specific things Cas was saying, the words from his lips seemed to be pulled from every nightmare Dean had.

 _I will never want you._

Dean swallowed hard. Then he swallowed again. He felt the horrible, flighty feeling of butterflies in his stomach _—_ the kind that had razors as wings and would send him spiraling into a panic attack. He hadn’t felt this sensation since after Hell, but as soon as he recognized it, Dean got to his feet.

He knew Cas was scared and confused, and a part of Dean hoped Cas maybe didn’t mean what he was saying, but a much larger part of him absorbed every word Castiel was spitting at him like acid and it made him feel sick and overwhelmed from rejection. How could Cas ever want him? Of course Cas didn't want him.

If Castiel said anything more to him, Dean didn’t hear him over the blood rushing in his ears and the horrible pounding of his heart against his chest. He couldn’t listen to any more of this.

Dean crossed the distance to the exit, his feet making quick work of the steps down into the war room and then up into the corridor leading to the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms.

_You are poison. Don’t ever touch me again._

He could feel his breathing quicken and become stuttered. He came to a dead stop outside of the kitchen when he vaguely heard Sam call out to him, the noise sounding like it was coming to him from underwater. Dean could feel the blood drain out of his face and he knew his shoulders heaved; he was hyperventilating. Air felt like it was entering his throat through a pinhole and his skin tingled over his face and chest, traveling down his arms.

 _You are corrupt. I will_ never _want you._

He felt himself be steered into the kitchen. As he panted and gasped, his hand pressed against his chest, he felt his brother rub his back soothingly and push his head between his legs. Dean’s face ached, and he realised all of his features were tensed up, twisted into a grimace, lips trembling and eyes squeezing shut.

As the rushing of blood quietened in his ears, Dean heard Sam’s voice a bit clearer; “... hey, hey, Dean. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe, man. Breathe.”

Through a colossal amount of effort, Dean inhaled through his nose, realising he had been trying to hold his breath, that his lungs were burning and his chest felt impossibly heavy. His heart slammed so viciously in his chest, he thought it might break through.

“Dean,” Sam asked gently, “can you speak?”

A tear rolled down the side of Dean’s nose as he sat up, his damp palms rubbing at his knees. He nodded but didn’t say anything. Sam didn’t push it.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Sam’s said, tone heavy with guilt. “I knew you hadn’t slept. Shit, we should have taken shifts watching Cas. I’m sorry. I knew you hadn’t slept in, what, days? You must be exhausted. Listen, just sit for a second, I’ll get you some water _—_ ”

As Sam led him over to the table, Dean found his voice, after tearing it out of his stomach and forcing it past his lips. It came out thin and strained.

“Something is really wrong with Cas.”

Castiel watched the abborhent demon _—_ creature, entity, whatever it was _—_ the twisted version of Dean _—_ walk away from him.

Every dream, every hallucination, every drag of that filthy creature’s tongue over his skin had been a lie and he _remembered it all_. He remembered the angels, their dead corpses drawling at him in the library. He remembered reading from the book. He remembered the words he spoke, the things he’d read.

He didn’t know why he suddenly remembered, but it made him want to escape _right now_.

He should have known, he should have recognized the monster sooner, walking around the bunker, wearing Dean’s face, coming to him at night and making him feel desired and wanted in return. He should have known Dean would never return his feelings, never want him in the ways he wanted Dean. The animalistic, physical encounters had been fairly convincing, but this… this softness, kindness... There was no way that was real.

Castiel felt _so stupid_. He’d fallen for it for a moment, he’d let himself be pulled in by a version of Dean that wanted him back. But he saw it now; it was the book. The book was wearing Dean’s face.

He had to leave. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He hated it here. He couldn’t stay, not when he couldn’t distinguish dreams from reality or monsters from his friends.

The logical thing to do would be to tell Sam and Dean _—_ the real Dean _—_ about everything that he remembered, but how could he when he didn’t know which Dean was real? Castiel threw out a hand to catch himself as he swayed, feeling dizzy from the idea that he had no real way to distinguish which Dean had been real and which had been the book. How long had it been since he’d actually spoken to the real Dean?

Sweat dripped down his back and he pressed a hand to his mouth, feeling sick.

He had to leave.

Castiel slowly slid his hand off the wall, watching the door that the monster had left from. He gathered his bearings and quietly crossed the room, then made his way down the steps to the war room. He could hear Sam and Dean’s quiet voices from the kitchen _—_ Castiel’s fist bunched up and he felt the tingle of paranoia creep up his spine.

Had the creature been alternating with Sam as well, wearing his face?

He watched Sam guide Dean to sit at the table, their backs to him. This was his chance. There was no other way back to his rooms and to the garage if he didn’t pass the kitchen.

Holding his breath, Castiel turned the corner. As he snuck past the kitchen, he quickly glanced in. Sam slid a glass of water over to Dean and put a hand on his shoulder. They looked so convincingly like Dean and Sam that Castiel almost stopped his escape and was tempted to approach them for help or to tell them everything. But the memory of Dean’s predatory golden eyes flashing up at him reignited the panic in his heart.

Getting to his bedroom passed like a blur. He barely registered what he was doing as he shoved clothing, his phone, Sam’s earbuds, Jimmy’s wallet, and his angel blade into a bag hanging from the back of the door. He changed out of his sweat-damp sleeping clothes, quickly throwing on a grey t-shirt and slipping into black jeans. Roughly, he shoved his feet into an old pair of combat boots Dean had given him.

_Come to me. Come, Castiel._

He had been halfway to the door, but Castiel dropped the bag on his bed, clapping his hands to his ears. The voice, it was strong, more insistent. It had been speaking to him on a near constant basis since he’d woken up from his last dream, echoing in his head and sounding like it was coming from within the walls. Snatching up the bag with a renewed sense of hurry, Castiel turned into the corridor and headed towards Dean’s room, nervously watching the corner to the kitchen, hoping “Dean” and ‘Sam’ had stayed put.

He pushed open the door to Dean’s room, purposely looking away from the rumpled sheets, willing his stomach to stop churning at the memories of filthy, corrupt things the monster had done to him on that bed. Dream or not, the feeling of its poisonous tongue dragging over his spine made him want to vomit.

Castiel crossed the small space and rushedly began patting down Dean’s coats and hoodies that hung on hooks in the back corner.

“Keys… keys…” he whispered, more frantic as his search kept coming up with nothing. He threw fruitless clothing aside, jackets and sweaters littered on the floor and on the bed until none were left hanging on hooks.

Castiel wiped at his forehead, pushing away sweat. He looked around the room with dread. If he didn’t leave soon, Sam and Dean would notice he was gone from the library. Then who knows what measures they would take to keep him in the bunker… If he was locked in a room or tied up, that _thing_ could do anything to him, wearing anyone’s face.

He needed to find car keys, any car keys.

Castiel spotted a thin light grey hoodie bundled up on the top of Dean’s dresser. He made quick work of crossing the room and rifling through the pockets. As fingers wrapped around metal and there was the jingling of keys, Castiel snatched up the sweater and spun on his heel, exiting the room.

He shoved his arms into the arms of the sweater, jerking it close to his body and zipping it up. Behind him he heard footsteps, slow, then quicker, getting closer to him. Jerkily, he looked over his shoulder, but there was no one following him.

He quickened his pace towards the garage, the shaking in his hands getting worse.

_Come to me, Castiel. Come. Come._

“No,” he breathed, hoping to sound angry but he noticed with a sense of shame, that he just sounded scared. His feet echoed through the garage as he nearly stumbled down the stairs and ran towards the Impala.

Castiel yanked the keys out of his pocket and even though he was flustered and in a rush, he stared at them for a moment. He didn’t want to have to steal the Impala, it meant too much to Dean, but he didn’t know where the keys to the other cars were, he’d never been shown and he didn’t have time to look.

He… he would return it. As soon as his mind was clear and he felt like himself again, he would return it. He’d wash it, he’d take good care of it.

“Cas?”

Castiel’s wrist, as it turned the keys into the driver side lock, stilled and he looked up, shocked to see Kevin standing in the middle of the garage staring at him, his head tilted, looking confused and perhaps a bit frightened.

“Kevin,” Castiel choked out. “What are you doing here?”

But as he asked, he saw the trash bins along a wall near the back of the garage, just over Kevin’s shoulders.

The prophet approached him with his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

“Cas,” Kevin said carefully. He ignored Castiel’s question and walked towards him slowly, though the look on his face plainly revealed he’d rather not be. “Where are you going? Dean and Sam said you can’t leave, remember? You should, uh, give me the keys, you know? We can go upstairs and find Dean, he can help. You don’t have to go.”

Castiel wrenched open the Impala’s door and he threw his bag into the passenger seat, but not before wrapping his fingers around the handle of his angel blade. Kevin was getting too close, he was almost near the Impala’s headlights...

Kevin’s eyes darted down to the blade in Castiel’s hand and his eyes widened. At some point during Kevin’s monologue, Castiel had raised his weapon and pointed it at Kevin over the open driver side door.

“Let me leave, Kevin,” he whispered, his breath uneven and shallow. He was pointing his weapon at a prophet. It went against everything he ever knew, against every instinct he had as an angel, a protector of the prophets, but his shaking hand seemed to be doing things against his will. “Just go upstairs and l-let me leave. Say nothing to Sam and Dean.”

Kevin did step back, eyes wide as they stared down the tip of the blade. Still, the brave prophet shook his head. “No, Cas. Listen, you gotta stay. Whatever you think you gotta do, the book is behind it. It doesn’t make sense, f-for you to go. It’s the book, Cas. It’s manipulating you, can’t you see that? Don’t… don’t listen to the voices.”

“That’s what I am trying to do!” Castiel yelled, shocking himself with the anger in his voice. Kevin jumped back this time, his raised hands beginning to visibly tremble. Though he moved away, Kevin seemed to be purposefully moving to stand in front of the Impala, blocking his path. Castiel’s shaking worsened, his blade trembling. A drop of sweat tumbled down the side of his face.

“What about Dean?” Kevin argued, his voice taking on a frightened quality, his throat bobbing as he gulped nervously. “He’s been like, driving himself into the ground trying to protect everyone, to keep us all safe. He’s been trying so hard, he’s exhausted, and now you’re just gonna leave?”

“Stop,” Castiel begged. He didn’t want to hurt the prophet. The very idea made his heart wrench. “Please, Kevin. Get out of my way.”

After a long pause, where Kevin continued to glance from the blade to Castiel’s miserable face, the prophet nodded and lowered his hands.

When Castiel began lowering the blade, Kevin turn and ran. Castiel watched him go, stepping forward abruptly, meaning to stop him, but Kevin disappeared up the stairs and into a corridor, back inside the bunker. Without a doubt, Kevin was going to tell Dean and Sam.

He felt a rush of panicked adrenaline, knowing he had only minutes before Kevin’s warning would have the Winchester’s on his tail. They’d know that he was taking the car _—_ Dean’s car.

Castiel ran up to the garage doors and slammed his hand down on the red button that activated the doors. As the buzzer went off, he glanced back at the staircase to the bunker and ran back to the car, throwing himself into the driver’s seat.

After struggling and trying to recall the million times he watched Dean drive, Castiel pulled out of the parking spot and drove the Impala through the tunnel and out onto the road.

He had no idea where he was going.

Dean took another careful sip of water; Sam’s orders.

His brother rubbed at his back and Dean partially wanted to snap at him to knock it off, but Dean’s chest felt heavy with anxiety and the sting of heartbreak. He couldn’t quite justify denying himself a small comfort when it was offered to him.

“You all right now?” Sam asked gently.

Dean nodded, swallowing the water and setting the glass down on the table. “Mhmm.”

Sam got up and moved to the stove, turning one off the elements and moving whatever he’d been cooking in a pan into the sink. When he returned to sit beside Dean, he sat on the bench fully turned towards him, his eyes and posture making it clear he was giving Dean's his full attention. Stupid caring kid.

“You wanna talk about it?” Sam let his hand fall away and he nervously tucked hair behind his ear. “I haven’t seen you have a panic attack since… well, I dunno, just after Hell? It’s been years.”

“I’m tired,” Dean rasped, trying to ignore the shake to his voice. Hoping to stall, he picked up the glass again and held it to his lips, staring off at the kitchen sink to avoid looking directly at Sam. His eyes burned and he felt a wave of exhausted stress tears just waiting to fall if he was pushed even a little. “How did you know I was, uh…”

Sam snorted humorlessly. “I saw your face. It was pure white. Like, no colour in it. And by the time you got to the hall, you were completely hyperventilating.”

Dean sighed heavily. “That’s fucking embarrassing.”

“It’s not, but okay.” Sam shook his head, still staring at Dean with concern. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

Dean drank from the glass and ran a hand over his mouth, letting it pause there for a second, before it dropped down into his lap. He finally surveyed his brother. “I think we’re losing Cas fast. He _—_ he said some pretty rough stuff to me. It wasn’t like him at all. He seemed...”

“What kind of stuff?” Sam asked. The question was innocent enough but something on Dean’s face must’ve tipped him off, because Sam’s brow twitched into a furrow and he shuffled closer, hand returning to Dean’s shoulder.

Dean looked away, trying to rid his face of whatever gave him away, but all he could do was try to stop his chin from trembling.

“Just some shit,” he replied, pissed off that his voice came out small. Dean cleared his throat.

But when Sam’s hand on his shoulder squeezed, Dean felt his face tense up again, the corners of his lips twitching. A tear slipped down his cheek and he quickly swiped his hand across his face to hide it. Behind his roiling emotions, he felt a twinge of annoyance that he was crying.

“He said, uhm,” Dean licked his lips, fingers tight around the glass of water, “he said I was corrupt, that I was poison _—_ ”

And then he had to pause because the pain was bubbling in his chest again. Quickly, Dean raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. Beside him, Sam cleared his throat. When Dean looked over, he saw him shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

“Dean, but that stuff isn’t true.”

He didn’t know why he was being honest with Sam. He could easily just say that Castiel was going nuts, that he was taking a turn for the worst, that he seemed to be losing himself. But the same self-loathing doubt that made him believe every cruel word from Cas’ mouth also drove his confession.

“He told me never to touch him again,” Dean explained, his voice thin. He knew he sounded faint and weak, but forcing himself to repeat what Cas had said to him almost hurt more than the first time he’d heard them.

Dean slid his elbow on the table and rested his forehead against the heel of his hand, fingertips buried in his hair. Quietly and with every dreg of courage he had in his body, Dean murmured, “He…he said, ‘I will never want you’.”

Sam’s hand slid from his shoulder and for the second time that night, Dean felt sick with rejection. His eyes slid closed as he willed the thrumming, twisting anxiety in his stomach to leave him alone and he urged himself to breathe. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled pointedly through his mouth.

“Why would he say that?” Sam asked.

Dean opened his eyes and raised his head, forcing himself to look at his brother. Sam’s hands were folded in his lap, his head tilted a bit at Dean, a peculiar look on his face that Dean couldn’t read.

Eyes shining with unshed tears, Dean shrugged helplessly. “I kissed him, Sam.”

A surprised sound came from Sam’s throat and he exhaled sharply, brows shooting up.

“Jesus, Dean.”

They stared at each other, sitting still. Sam was searching Dean’s face, brows twitching down into a frown, seemingly lost for words and Dean stared back at him, unable to look away because he was paralyzed in fear. He felt raw, torn open, and taking in the furrowed brow and frown, he felt like Sam looked angry or disappointed. He watched Sam scratch his scalp and lick his lips, stalling for time.

He wondered if Sam would be angry at him for lying. Or rather, omitting and hiding his feelings for Cas and his sexuality in general. Maybe Sam would feel betrayed he hadn’t been told earlier. Maybe Sam would review all the times Dean had slept with women and feel lied to _—_ he shouldn’t, Dean definitely swung that way too, but maybe Sam wouldn’t understand that?

A small part of Dean was worried Sam would be disgusted, furious that Dean swung that way at all. Or maybe he’d think Dean was sick for falling for an angel. Castiel may be human now, but he had been an angel when Dean began to fall for him.

Maybe he would be angry that Dean kissed Castiel in a time like this, when Cas was vulnerable and not himself.

“I thought,” Dean started, swallow thickly, “that there might be something there. We’ve…been sleeping in the same bed for two nights now and he was making me feel like he actually...felt the same way? But, uh, it’s Cas, y’know? Maybe he didn’t understand the signals, and he’s been haunted by those voices and he’s been sick for weeks now, maybe he was only into it for the comfort, so that he wouldn’t feel scared. Ever since he became human, the thing between us seemed to ramp up and get stronger, I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Sam, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m just really tired.”

Dean pressed both heels of his hands against his forehead, sliding his eyes shut. He felt a crushing sense of relief when Sam’s arm came around his shoulders.

“I can’t imagine what it was like to hear him say that stuff, then.”

“Awful,” Dean breathed. “It sucked.”

“It’s bullshit though, Dean.”

Dean looked up, jerking his head back, looking surprised and confused. “What?”

Sam shrugged. “That he doesn’t want you. Well, actually all the things he said. But especially that.”

“You weren’t in there,” Dean argued. “You weren’t in there, man, you didn’t hear him.”

“Dean _—_ ”

“He doesn’t want me, Sam. I read the signals wrong. All wrong. Maybe… Maybe I was just projecting or some shit?”

“Dean, it’s the book,” Sam urged, squeezing Dean’s shoulders. “You gotta know that it’s the book. Cas would never hurt you like that. He’d never talk to you like that.”

“But what if it’s not, huh? What if he became human and I jumped at the opportunity to start something with him when he wasn’t ready to make that kind of decision? What if he wants what Metatron made him human for, huh? A wife and babies and a white picket fence,” Dean whispered, his voice strained, looking lost and a little angry, shrugging and gesturing with his hands to his chest. “Why the fuck would he want me? Some damaged hunter with no future, too much baggage, and a constant target on his back? I have nothing to offer. If I were him I wouldn’t want me either.”

“Oh my god, Dean. Jesus… is this what goes through your mind?”

“And I’m the one who found the book.” Dean shook his head faintly. “All of this is my fault.”

“Dean _—_ ”

“I’m bad news, Sam.” Dean wiped his nose on his sleeve. His chin trembled again. “I break everything I touch. I-It’s my fault he fell. I ruined an _angel—_ ”

Whatever Sam was going to say was interrupted by the pounding of footsteps getting louder towards them and Kevin bursting into the kitchen, nearly breaking his ankle as he stumbled down the stairs. He was flushed and out of breath.

“Guys! Guys, we... have... a problem,” he panted, resting his hands on his knees.

Sam shot up to his feet while Dean sharply turned his back to Kevin and dragged his hands over his face with his sleeves, sniffing sharply.

Sam stepped towards Kevin. “What?”

“It’s Cas.” Kevin gulped, standing up straight and wiping his forehead. Dean finally turned around to look at Kevin, though he and Sam quickly exchanged wide-eyed looks of worry.

“He took the Impala, Dean. He left.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ THIS WARNING:
> 
> This chapter includes a non-con scene that is violent and is described in detail. If that bothers you, please do not proceed. If you wish to carry on with the story but are uncomfortable with a non-con scene, it might be a bit jarring to skip forward, but I recommend just skipping to the next chapter.

The world was slowly shifting from night to day, the road and the forestry cast in a dim, cool blue. It would normally bring Castiel peace. The route was the same he took with Sam when they ran, and those times were precious to him as they brought him a semblance of peace.

Now, as the car zoomed around winding in the road, and Castiel drove deeper into the woods, their running route brought him only panic. 

Castiel wiped at his face, his breath uneven and shallow as he watched the trees thicken and blur as he drove past them. The Impala growled at him, loud and angry. It was like she knew he’d stolen her. 

He felt hot and nauseous, terrified that he’d made the wrong decision. Where was he even going? Where would he go? He’d expected the voices to quieten the farther he drove from the bunker, where that twisted, filthy _thing_ was lurking, calling to him, stalking him everywhere he went. He had expected it to stop hissing instructions in his ears, but...

_‘Come. Come to me, Castiel. COME TO ME.’_

“No,” he heard himself breathe, his own voice sounding far away. “No, no, no, no…”

The road through the forest was a never-ending route of twists and turns. It seemed to get darker as black rain clouds rolled over the sky above him. Castiel feared the road would never straighten out, that he’d never be able to see the mystery destination he was heading for in the horizon.

_‘My angel… come to me, I miss you. I want you. Come, come, come.”_

His very insides began to tremble, the blood in his veins thrumming and writhing. He felt the _thing_ crawling under his skin. The emptiness inside him swelled and for a brief moment, Castiel forgot how to breathe. 

He wiped, and wiped, and wiped at his face, running Dean’s hoodie sleeve under his eyes, catching the irritating, unceasing tears as they tumbled down this face. They were itchy, God, so itchy, he just wanted them to stop _—_

_‘The ritual is so close to completion… our union and the marking are the last steps. Come, Castiel.’_

“What am I doing?” Castiel whispered to nothing _—_ maybe to himself. The bunker wasn’t the problem, it was him. He was the problem. The creature wasn’t in the bunker, it was following him, lurking over his shoulder like a black cloud, like his shadow.

It would never leave him alone.

He held Dean’s sleeve, tugged over his fingers, gently against his lips as he released shuddered breaths against it, his eyes darting everywhere ahead of him. His hand slipped against the steering wheel.

This thing was never going to leave him alone. The only people who could help him were underground in that bunker, behind those safe steel doors that had sheltered him for over a month now. The doors he viciously dismissed as a prison. He’d said there was nothing for him down there, which he knew had hurt Dean; he’d seen it, seen him flinch. Castiel may as well have spit on him.

Dean had been trying to help. They’d all been trying to help, and all Castiel had done was steal Dean’s car and threaten Kevin at knife-point. He’d called their home a jail. On top of panic, guilt settled in Castiel’s stomach. 

But what if that hadn’t been the real Dean anyway? 

He felt fresh tears blur his vision and his chin trembled as he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back like Dean always did in that kind, comforting way.

“I have to go back,” Castiel breathed to himself, fingers briefly twisting in his hair. “I have to go back.”

He blinked away the tears, clearing his vision. As he drove the car around a sharp turn, he decided that he would be returning to the bunker, that he would end this madness, he’d find another way to deal with this. Maybe if he could get his hands on the book, he could burn it or rip it apart. Maybe he could curse it to Hell where it belonged.

The sudden appearance of a man in the middle of the road in front of him had Castiel forgetting all about his plans.

The man was twisted back, his body contorted painfully, his spine curled inhumanly. His face snapped towards the bright flashing of headlights, eyes blanked out by the light. His mouth opened impossibly wide and his greasy dark hair fell back from his face. His hand reached out to Cas, the fingers stretched apart, coated in filth, his body and face unrecognizable under layers of dirt and blood. 

With an alarmed cry, Castiel jerked the wheel aside, trying not to hit the man. There was a sickening thud as the man collided with the car anyway, rolling over the windshield. The Impala’s tires screeched as she slid in a circle across the road, turning completely around, only stopping when the side of the trunk crashed into a tree.

Castiel panted, hands gripping the wheel, his heart pounding. He had hit his head on the side window and on the steering wheel, but he was thankful he hadn’t been thrown out of his seat. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a small gash in his hairline, and his nose ached terribly. Blood ran thick out of it and over his lips. He slowly raised his hand and pressed it to his nose, groaning.

“Shit,” he whispered, seeing thick crimson bleed into the sleeve of Dean’s hoodie as he pulled his hand back from his face.

Castiel threw the car into park and pushed open the door, climbing out into the street. The hood and windshield of the car were slick with blood. 

His wide eyes darted around, searching the street quickly for a body. There was nothing. No man. There was no man on the side of the road, not under the car, not thrown behind the bumper, not even on the hood of the Impala. 

Only when Castiel walked around the front to the side of the road and towards the edge of the forest did he see the drag of blood and the splattering of it on dried leaves and dirt.

Slowly he raised his gaze, following the trail into the forest. His stomach dropped as he spotted something far in the woods. A man was running - _the_ man. His movements were jerking and twisting as he weaved in between the trees.

Despite his own head injury, the blood running from his nose and the general state of “feeling like shit” as Dean would have gracefully put it, Castiel pushed himself into a run, following the man. 

He felt an obligation to ensure this person was all right. Even before Castiel had barrelled into him with a two-ton piece of metal, the man was already in rough shape. 

If he had been clear-headed, Castiel may have questioned _why_ the injured man was standing in the middle of the road covered in blood, but his mind narrowed and focused on his pursuit, hoping he hadn’t managed to kill yet another living thing on this planet. He just wanted to be done with accidentally killing and hurting everyone. How many lives was he going to end by continuously making stupid, irrational mistakes?

“Wait!” Castiel yelled after the man, not wanting to lose him, yet torn with not wanting to trip over twisted tree roots hidden under dead foliage. The trees were thickening and the man was running out of sight, becoming smaller in the distance. Castiel’s breaths came out in cloudy puffs in the damp, cold morning air. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, leaning on trunk of a tree.

He considered letting the man go, but as his hand slid off the tree, he looked over at the bark and saw a smeared handprint dragged across it in fresh blood. The man was hurt. Maybe he was confused, lost, concussed _—_

A blood-curdling scream echoed through the woods and so he pushed off the ground with his heel and ran towards the noise. He followed the trail of blood, though it got harder to track as the ground got muddier and it led him through thick bushes that scraped at his face and hands.

His entire body burned as he ran through the forest. His breath was punched out of him as he pushed forward, dodging around tree trunks and ducking under branches. His skin was flayed and scratched by dry, dead bushes and thorny twigs that twisted and jutted out from behind mangled trees. Thunder suddenly rolled over his head and drops of rain began to fall through the breaks in the treetops.

Castiel suddenly got a distinct feeling like... he’d been here before.

Despite that, he picked up speed and jumped over a small creek that seemed to come out of nowhere. It was only when he landed on his feet and barrelled forward, his feet slipping across mud, that he realised.

This was the place from his nightmare. 

After a terrible gasp of realization, Castiel looked up and saw the man from the road in front of him, mud sliding off his body in globs, splattering on the ground. The man grinned at him sinisterly, white eyes wide, and hand up at his shoulder, waving.

It all came rushing to him again - this was the same man. It had always been the same man this entire time. From Castiel’s run, from his nightmare in the bunker, and now from the road. It was the same man… no, same _thing_. 

“No!” Castiel roared angrily. As he tried to come to a stop, his feet slid in mud. He released a sharp inhalation of surprise when his foot went right through the ground. Except it wasn’t the ground, it was a pit of water - muddy, swampy water hidden under a layer of leaves. 

Castiel crashed into the water, quickly becoming completely submerged. Panic sent his heart hammering in his chest as the world got dark and foggy. Feeling as though perception slowed, he floated there for a moment, alarmed when his feet didn’t find purchase or support. 

But time caught up and instinct kicked in _—_ he swam up, sliding his body through the thick water. He gasped around mud and grime as he broke the surface.

Castiel’s feet eventually found the bottom of the swampy pit, though he slipped repeatedly. He half-walked and half-swam towards the edge after looking around and suddenly seeing no one but himself. 

The man was gone. 

Castiel slapped his hand down on a slope made of wet dirt and decayed leaves leading out of the swampy pit, fingers digging into mud as he tried to slide himself out. His legs were suddenly exhausted. He was spent on adrenaline _—_ so much so that he paused to rest, spitting blood from his nosebleed down into the mud in front of him. Rain began to splatter down around him in thick drops.

Behind him came a voice.

“You came to me.” 

Castiel rolled onto his back quickly, fear shooting down his spine. The voice was familiar and horrific. It was straight from his nightmares, from the back of his mind, from the echoes within the walls of the bunker. It was a deep, hellish mash of every evil from the very depths of Hell, voices layered on each other, echoing around the forest, managing to be both malicious and airy.

Several feet away in the middle of the pit, a head rose from the water, mud sliding over its hair and face. Eyes broke the surface, watching Castiel, the white orbs twinkling darkly. The decayed, waterlogged skin around its eyes crinkled happily. The corners of its inhumanly wide and horrifying smile poked up over the ripples in the water. Its skin was molted and peeling, its under eyes and lips blackened and bruised.

Castiel threw himself onto his stomach again, desperately trying to hoist himself up onto solid ground. With a yelp and a splash, he was forcefully yanked back into the water again when something sinister wrapped around his ankle.

“Let me go!” he snarled, clawing at mud and leaves to get away.

It was fruitless - he was pulled underwater again, entirely submerged. 

The thing around his ankle twisted up his leg, holding him firmly under the surface. Castiel’s heart hammered and he thrashed, kicking his legs out. The heel of his boot caught on the thick, slippery tendrils around his leg. He momentarily freed himself when it snapped off of him like it was pained.

A wretched, panicked gasp erupted from his throat as his face broke the water again. Then he choked down another gasp when the face of the monster was inches from his. 

“You’ve come to me, you’ve made your choice,” it simpered, tilting its head. “You can’t run from me, Castiel. You can’t hide, angel.”

“No!” Castiel spat, trying to escape, swimming back, feet slipping. 

In his mind, he remembered the words he’d read from the book, the image flashing across his mind. “You can’t. You d-don’t have my consent. I take it back. _No._ ”

He screamed as a horrific shriek blew through the forest, making the trees shudder and leaves uniformly jump off the ground, flying through the air in a blast. The water around them sloshed, getting in Castiel’s mouth, making him choke. 

A hand shot out of the water, fingers long and twisted, wrapping around his neck, the nails digging into his jaw. He was lifted off of his feet, gasping and tearing at the hand with his nails, trying to get a breath.

Its white eyes were impossibly wide, looking bulging with madness. Its horrible, deep voice echoed loudly through the clearing, bouncing off trees and the surface of the pit. 

“Too late, chosen one,” it taunted, sounding gleeful. “I don’t need you to keep saying yes, I only needed you to say it once. YOU _MADE YOUR CHOICE_. YOU ARE MINE. MINE.”

“Fuck you,” Castiel wheezed. He swung his arm to throw a punch but a thorny tendril shot up out of the water, twisting around his arm, locking him into place, cutting at his skin. 

The creature tilted it’s head, growling, the sound a series of rumbles and predatory clicks. “No.” It grinned. “Fuck _you.”_

And then with a show of brute force, in one swift motion it lifted Castiel completely out of the water by his neck like he weighed nothing and slammed him back down into it with a violent splash. Air was knocked out of his lungs. He threw his head back to gasp and wheeze for a breath. 

He was left gasping in shallow enough water. He was almost completely submerged except for his face.

With another one of those deep, clicking growls, the monster slid its body on top of him, its horrible, frightening mouth splitting into a wide, terrifying grin of glee.

“What _—_ ” Castiel spit out water and rasped _—_ “are you going to do to me?”

“You already know, pure one,” it hissed. A horrible, sludge covered tongue darted out and dragged across his cheek. Castiel flinched away, growling. 

It chuckled evilly in response. “I’m going to be inside you.”

Slippery tree roots twisted out of the ground and broke the surface of the water, making horrible squelching noises. Castiel realized with a horrible clench of his stomach what was about the happen as he felt the creature’s other hand slip down his chest and stomach, pausing only for a moment to chuckle darkly before it slipped his pants off of his hips.

“No. No, don’t,” ordered Castiel through his teeth, trying to sound brave, but his fingers trembled as he clutched the slick, grimy skin of the monster’s arms, his hand sliding uselessly off of them. The slippery roots coiled towards him.

“Why?” It asked, its voice mocking and slimy. “You didn’t seem to mind it before? In your dream, you begged me for it.” 

To Castiel’s horror, the creature opened its mouth and his own voice came out, panting and wrecked and husky, _“Yes. Yes, yes. Do it.”_

“No,” Castiel sputtered around filthy water as it splashed into his mouth. “It w-wasn’t meant for you. It was for Dean… N-Not you.”

His stomach roiled and Castiel was filled with an immediate panic the made him feel paralyzed as more roots twisted around his legs and slipped up his thighs, tightening in a vice grip, prying his legs apart. 

When something slippery and thick slithered between his legs and pressed up against the entrance into his body, Castiel broke. 

Words poured out of his mouth, begging and pleading. His face heated up in shame as thousands of years of warrior-like courage and resolve dissolved into the water.

“Castiel,” the monster spoke over his pleading, and Castiel wanted to scream because the voice was Dean’s. The fucking thing was using Dean’s voice. “But it _was_ me.”

“Stop. Don’t do this. No, no, no, no. _Please_ ,” Castiel wept. He bucked up, trying to fruitlessly to toss the monster off of him. “Please, don’t. Don’t!”

But then he tipped his head back and a scream tore out of his throat. The sound was ripped from him as the monster slithered into his body excruciatingly fast and slippery, tearing him apart, shredding his insides. He felt his organs ignite in pain. It poured into him, neither solid, nor liquid, nor smoke, or air. 

Castiel’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as the emptiness in him was filled with Hell. It twisted into every corner of his vessel, filling him with mud, and blood, and rage, and horror, and hatred, and fear. He choked on it and felt it fill every hole, and corner, and crevice in his body until he couldn’t remember who he was, or how to breathe, or how to move. He heard himself choke and gag as thick sludge filled his stomach and rose up his esophagus. 

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t remember where the thing started and he began. 

“Mine,” was the last thing he heard before it clamped its mouth over his, something thick and slippery slithering down his throat.

“He fucking threatened me with his angel blade!” Kevin yelped, still ranting as their car _—_ a 1954 Pontiac Chieftain that Dean had been fixing up a few months earlier _—_ turned out of the tunnel exit. 

Noticing black tire marks on the road curving deeper into the forest, they pulled out into the dark, cold fall morning. The old car roared down the street as Sam picked up speed, slowly pushing his foot down on the accelerator until it hit the floor. 

“He’s not himself,” Sam explained firmly. 

Dean felt his brother glance over at him, looking worriedly at his face. 

Sam continued, “In his right mind, Cas wouldn't normally do that to you, Kevin. You’re a prophet.”

“I know,” Kevin grumbled, releasing the back of Sam and Dean’s headrests, sitting back against the back seat. “I nearly shit myself, though. I’m starting to get really tired of always being in danger.”

“Kevin!” Dean barked, throwing his hands up irately. “Can we focus? Can we not make this about you for a second, please? Focus! For fuck’s sake.”

Kevin glared at Dean. “I wasn’t trying to make it about me! Don’t make it seem like I don’t care about Cas. He’s kinda weird and annoying but I don’t want him to get hurt or for him to hurt other people.”

“‘Weird and annoying’?” Dean snapped, offended on Cas behalf, turning around in his seat. “Some fucking nerve you have _—_ ”

“GUYS!” Sam bellowed. “Focus.”

Dean turned back around, leaning on the window, forehead in his hand. 

Kevin crossed his arms across his chest, glaring out at the passing landscape. Rain began to beat down against the glass. 

As the trees zooming past them grew denser and the early morning dark sky grew cloudy, Dean felt foreboding crawl up his spine.

“I can’t believe he took Baby,” he growled. “What if she gets into an accident? What if she gets lost? If anything happens to her…”

A long sigh came from Sam in the passenger’s seat. “We’ll find him, Dean.”

“Does he even know how to drive?” 

“Dean, he’s been riding around with us for years. I’m sure he’s picked up how to drive an automatic.” Then Sam paused. “Dean, could you please stop doing that with your leg.”

After clearing of his throat, Dean stopped bouncing his leg nervously. He hadn’t even realised he was doing it.

“So do we have any idea where he’d even go?” Kevin asked from the back seat.

“No idea,” Sam answered. He pointed out of the windshield. “But, good news is that the tire marks went this way. And this one road pretty much exclusively winds through forest for a good half an hour. If we’re fast enough, we can catch up to him.”

“Does he even have money? I.D.? Like, would he have even thought to grab that stuff?” Dean went on, running his hands over his thighs. “Kevin, can you try calling him again?”

“Cas deliberately snuck out, pointed an angel blade at me, stole your favourite car, and you think he’s gonna just like, pick up his phone?” Kevin asked, his brows raised, shrugging his shoulders. 

Regardless of his skepticism, as Dean turned his face to glare, Kevin was already pulling his phone out of his pocket. Under his breath, he muttered, “I mean, we’ve called him five times so far with no answer, but I guess I’ll try again.”

“You do that,” Dean growled. “Send him a text too.”

Kevin, phone to his ear, gave Dean the middle finger. “Why don’t _you_ text him?”

Dean turned around to retort, but Sam’s sharp exclamation of “ _Dean!_ ” that was too panicked to be a scolding alerted them to more pressing matters. Dean turned in his attention to the road in front of them as Sam slowed down, diverting the old car to the side of the road.

Dean’s heart sank. Abandoned on the side of the road was the Impala, engine still running, a tree dented into her right back bumper. The front door was open, blood running down the driver seat window from a crack that looked very distinctly like it was made by a human head colliding with it. 

“Oh my god,” Kevin breathed, just before Dean and Sam hurried out of the car. The prophet slowly lowered the phone. The generic ringtone that was programmed on Cas’ phone played from within the Impala. 

Sam ducked quickly into the car. He rummaged through a bag of stuff that was spilled on to the passenger floor, its contents strewn about _—_ no doubt from the crash. 

Dean stood outside the car, staring at it with his eyes wide.

The damage to the car was fixable. His baby was fine. He could bang out the dent and replace the back wheel. He could probably even get the window fixed sooner rather than later. His eyes were on the smear and the fresh run of blood down the window. 

He slowly did a walk around the Impala, looking for signs of a struggle, but there was nothing. No blood outside the Impala, no sign that there had been another car Cas had tried to avoid hitting. Nothing.

Sam backed out of the car, holding Cas’ phone and his angel blade. He leaned on the top edge of the open door, rolling the handle to the blade in his hand. He stared at Dean, eyes alight with concern.

“He had a bunch of stuff. His wallet, the blade, his phone, some clothes. He was _actually_ trying to leave,” Sam explained. He looked at the phone in his hand and then the weapon. “I dunno where he’d go right now without at least his blade or his phone. Dean, I think… maybe something took him.”

Dean stared at him, lost for words. Kevin approached the car, looking shocked.

“Oh my god. _Cas.._.” Kevin began to say, but was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream that threw all three men into high alert. 

Dean and Sam exchanged looks.

“It’s Cas,” they said in unison.

Sam and Kevin burst into the forest, sprinting behind Dean who led the way, his powerful legs helping him leap over branches and roots easily. 

They ran through the forest, the three of them trying to follow the general direction of the scream. Dean saw a smear of blood across a tree trunk and swallowed a gasp, grunting as he pushed himself harder.

“Cas!” he yelled, inhaling sharply as a thorny dead bush slashed at his sleeves. He burst out from a thick smattering of trees and slid to a frantic stop as he nearly went careening into a small creek. Sam and Kevin caught themselves on thin tree trunks so that they didn’t crash into Dean. 

On the other side of the creek, Cas was trying to drag himself out of a swamp, covered head to toe in a thick mud water, panting and gasping as he slid further back into the water and down into the mud, his hands and arms swallowed by it. The thick substance was slowly becoming more watery as heavy rainfall crashed down on their heads and it was trying to swallow Cas like quicksand.

Dean jumped over the creek and hurried around to the edge of the muddy body of water, falling to his knees in front of Cas. Trying to avoid getting stuck in the mud himself, Dean stretched forward and grasped Cas’ forearms, groaning as he tried to pull Cas out and met some resistance. His knees sunk into the ground, his jeans making disgusting squelching sounds as he lifted them up, trying to find ground to support both him and Cas.

Cas coughed up the filthy water painfully as he continued to sink into the swamp, his hands and arms disappearing fast. The water splashed around his shoulders. Dean’s hands slipped as they pushed into the mud and tried to wrap around Cas’ fingers or wrist, but it was useless. 

“HELP ME!” Dean roared to Sam and Kevin, who stood behind him, unsure of what to do when there wasn’t room for them anywhere without sinking in too. With the exception of where Cas and Dean struggled, the rest of the swamp was covered in leaves, barely distinguishable from the forest floor. The only vague give away was the gently rocking of leaves and grime as rain splashed on a thin sheet of water on top of them.

“Pull me out,” Dean yelled as Cas’ panting became more rapid and harsh, water rising up over his jawline as he seemed to get swallowed by the swamp. 

Dean quickly got on his stomach and hauled himself closer to his friend, slipping one arm under his and grasping at his back, the other arm reaching over Cas’ shoulder, fingers buried in his hoodie. He felt Cas desperately cling onto his shirt. 

Sam and Kevin pulled Dean back, onto the wet forest floor, dragging Cas with him. They hauled Dean up onto his knees. When they released him, he and Cas were still grasping at each other, on their knees and shaking. 

Not caring the Kevin and Sam were watching, Dean held Cas close, and they panted erratically, adrenaline and fear and relief tangled in the haggard sounds. Wind picked up around them, blowing up leaves and rocking the surface of the water. It howled as it blew through the trees.

“What the fuck were you thinking, huh, Cas?” Dean yelled, throwing an arm around Cas’ shaking waist, hauling him up and closer, gripping him in his arms almost crushingly. His hand came up to the back of Cas’ head, desperately stroking his drenched, filthy hair. “You fucking idiot.”

Cas didn’t answer, but Dean didn’t have time to ask again because Sam had his hand on Dean’s shoulder and the other one bunched on the back of Castiel’s hoodie, hauling them to their feet.

“Come on, let’s go back! The storm is picking up and the cars are still running!” Sam yelled over the howling. He clapped Dean on the back, ducking to meet his eye. “You got Cas?”

Dead nodded quickly. “Yeah, let’s go.”

While it had hurt to leave the Impala with Sam and Kevin, Dean’s priority was getting Cas back to the bunker. He’d driven them back, pushing the old Chieftain's engine probably more than he should. Cas had done nothing but shake and stare straight out of the window, blinking away blood as it dripped from a gash in his hairline. No matter what Dean said to him, he barely seemed to register it and didn’t respond.

It was only when Dean helped him into the bunker, down the stairs, across the war room, down the hallway past the kitchen, and into the locker room-style bathrooms, that Cas seemed to snap out of it. 

Dean sat Cas down on the wooden bench in between the showers and sinks. Cas inhaled shakily, groaned in pain, and blinked, looking around like he was surprised to be back at the bunker. 

He gazed in shock at Dean, who swallowed hard and turned away. 

Helping a Cas who had been barely holding onto consciousness had been easy. Looking at a lucid Cas suddenly took Dean back to the library and he felt his face get hot under the pressure and hurt.

He turned his back to him and turned on one of the showers, ducking aside to avoid the water as it burst from the shower head. He ran his hand under the stream to check the temperature and then turned to face Cas... who was gone. 

“What the _—_ ” Dean started, stepping out quickly to look around the tiled room. Irrationally, he felt frightened for a moment that Cas had vanished into thin air. But Cas was standing over a sink, gulping repeatedly over it, drooling and spitting into the white porcelain basin. 

“I want it out,” Cas was whispering fervently under his breath. “I want it out. It hurts. Get out. _Get out. Get out. Get out._ ”

Dean was over to him in a flash when he heard sickening hollow churning noises come from Cas’ stomach, where his shaking, filthy hand was pressed against the soiled hoodie. 

He barely got his hands around Cas arms and held him up as a mortifying stream of watery mud and dark blood poured from his mouth and splashed down into the sink. It was disgusting and violent _—_ it was inhuman. 

Cas didn’t get a chance to breathe. 

Dean watched in horror as the sink slowly filled, Cas’ shoulders wrenching forward as it poured out of him forcefully. 

In the mirror above the sink, he saw Cas turn a pale shade of purple as he suffocated, mud streaming out of his mouth, blood cascading out of his nose and over his lips.

“Stop,” Dean breathed, not realising he’d said it, or who he was talking to in particular. Then louder; “Stop hurtinghim!”

And with that, it stopped. Cas gasped horribly and his knees gave out, only very narrowly missing hitting his chin on the porcelain sink because Dean threw his arm around his waist and pulled him back against him, the two dropping to their knees on the tile flooring. 

He held Cas back against him, trying so hard to hold back tears of frustration as agonizing breaths puffed out from Cas’ lips and blood ran down his chin. With a hand on Cas’ forehead, he tipped his head back against his shoulder and held him tightly against his chest.

“Something is h-happening to me,” Castiel rasped around a gurgling in his throat. “Something is inside of me.”

Dean hauled him up a bit, squeezing him tighter. Dean shook his head, his chin trembling. “No,” he said roughly, “Not on my watch, Cas.”

“It’s too late,” Cas said hoarsely, swallowing wetly. 

Dean struggled to his feet, hauling them both up. He helped Cas sit, and kneeled in front of him, freezing when Cas cried out, looking like he was in pain, like just sitting was hurting him. 

Dean snapped his hands back off of him, alarmed. 

Cas breathed unevenly and leaned over, shifting his weight onto his arm. Dean stayed on the floor in front of him, unsure if he was allowed to touch.

He swallowed and spoke with an assertiveness he clearly didn’t have. His hands shook as they rested on his knees. “You’re sick, Cas. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Listen, nothing is going to hurt you. I won’t let anything hurt you anymore.”

“It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not,” Dean said. “I’ll protect you. I-I mean, I’ll do a better job. I’ll do a better job of protecting you, I…” Dean bowed his head for a second, collecting his thoughts, before he looked up at Cas again. “You’re hurt, Cas. Your head and your nose are still bleeding. Let me clean you up and then you can shower. We can talk after. “

Dean paused, feeling the heavy weight of exhaustion in his chest. “Wait, no. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we can talk.” _About everything. The book, the running away, the fact that you stole my car, what happened in the woods, that shit you said to me in the library_. “I… gotta sleep. But then we’ll figure everything out.”

He realised he was ranting. Swallowing hard again, he glanced up at Cas. “Is that okay?”

Cas nodded quickly. His blood dripped onto the floor. 

Dean walked over to a medicine cabinet and retrieved first aid supplies. He avoided looking at the sink filled with mud and blood, and instead used the shower to drench some cloths with water. 

Sitting in front of Cas again, he raised his hand, one palm out, one holding a cloth.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask before,” he murmured, remembering Cas’ venomous words in the library, “but… can I touch you? Is that okay? You, you, can tell me to stop at any time. I mean, I’d like for you to let me help. You’re kinda bleeding all over the place, man.”

Cas raised his eyes to meet Dean’s. Surprisingly, although they were red and glistening with pain, he looked lucid. That wild look in his eye from the library was missing. 

“You’re you,” Castiel observed quietly. It sounded like a revelation. Dean almost laughed at how silly and simple it sounded.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, flashing Cas a small but crooked toothy smile. “Who else would I be?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He just ducked his head a bit and took Dean’s wrist in his hand, pulling it up towards his head. He placed the cloth on the gash at his hairline. Dean gripped the cloth tighter and took Cas’ signal as consent. He began to work on his wounds. 

He was gentle as he wiped blood away from Cas’ nose and lips, and said very quiet, soft words of comfort when Cas hissed in pain. He disinfected the gash in his hairline and closed it with a butterfly bandage, deciding he would live without stitches. While it was unnecessary, Dean used another cloth to wipe most of the grime and mud off of Cas’ face and neck.

And it was unnecessary when Dean found himself gripping the zipper to Castiel’s hoodie and tugging down, eyes flickering up to Cas in case of a negative reaction, but Cas just watched him quietly. Cas had tears in his eyes, but hell, Dean kind of did too, so he didn’t mention it. They’d both had a rough day. 

“Your nose should be fine, it probably just got bumped really hard. You got a bruise there but it’s not too swollen and it doesn’t feel broken. Just don’t go crashing any more cars and it should heal pretty quickly,” Dean murmured. He noticed Cas’ eyes flicker away and his jaw jumped a few times, one tear sneakily dropping onto his cheek. Cas quickly wiped it away and so Dean decided not to mention the stolen Impala again until tomorrow.

Cas didn’t say anything. 

Dean carried on, pushing the hoodie over Cas’s shoulders. He helped him take his arms out of the sleeves, which proved to be difficult, because mud caked even the inside of the hoodie and had to be forcibly peeled away. 

Dean’s eyes went wide like saucers when his eyes fell upon fresh bruising and scrapes that curled up and around Cas’ forearms, angry and red. He reached a hand out to touch them.

They’d only been ten minutes behind Cas… how did someone restrain and hurt him in that time?

“Cas… what happened out there?” 

Cas reached up quickly and pushed Dean’s hand away. “I…I can’t talk about it.”

Dean stared up at Cas, whose shoulders seemed to be curling in on themselves. “You can tell me, Cas. I won’t be mad or, uh, upset. You can _—_ ”

“ _Please_ ,” Cas pleaded through his teeth. His eyes squeezed shut. “Please, Dean. Don’t make me talk about it. Not right now.”

Dean watched Cas look tormented for a moment, and he decided whatever happened in the forest was a topic that he wasn’t going to drop…but it would be something he would pursue tomorrow.

“Okay. Fine.” Dean nodded and touched Cas’ hand to get his attention. Dean noticed the bruising around Cas’ wrists. The skin there was scraped like he’d fought against restraints. What the _fuck_ happened in the forest? “I won’t push it. Just…let me help you.”

When it came time to take off his t-shirt, Cas had to stop leaning on his arm, and he cried out when he had to sit without any support, his breaths shuddering.

“Whoa!’ Dean said, hands on Cas’ arms. He tried to meet Cas’ eye, but they were closed, tears of pain leaking out from the corners. “Cas? Cas? Hey, man. What hurts? Where else are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Cas keened, his voice strangely high and thin, clearly strained and agonized. Under the poorly wiped off grime, he went white. 

Convinced by the quick draining of blood from Cas’ face that he was about to throw up again, Dean got to his feet and offered Cas his hands, ready to help him over to a toilet instead of the sink. But when Cas took his hands, hissing as he was helped up, they didn’t move towards the toilet. 

The two men stood, their hands linked together up by their waists, Dean staring at Cas and Cas’ eyes glittering in pain.

When he opened his mouth next, Cas said tightly, “Can you help me get this off?”

Dean let Cas guide their hands down to the bottom edge of his shirt. Together, they peeled it off of him and threw it aside. 

“Thank you,” Cas whispered. 

Dean wanted to cry because Cas was inches from his face and if they were in different circumstances, and if Cas hadn’t torn him apart last time he tried, he would have kissed him. He would have stepped forward just an inch, and brought his hands up to slide into mud-caked hair and would have ran his hand comfortingly, with gentleness, over Cas’s face and down his neck. And he would have held him close and tried to patch things up between them with an embrace and a kiss that he’d pour everything into. 

Instead he stepped back a bit and cleared his throat. “Can I help you with your jeans? Those will be worse.”

Castiel nodded, his shaky hands undoing the button and lowering the zipper, putting his hands on Dean’s shoulders as he helped shimmy the jeans over Cas’ hips and down his legs. 

Dean felt sick with guilt as he took a moment to imagine other scenarios where his face would be an inch from Cas’ cock and he would have his hands dragging down his thick thighs. His fingers would have reveled in touching every inch of his legs and ass, mapping out a path for his lips.

But Dean kneeled there, face drained of colour as he noticed more angry bruising around Cas’ legs, the skin torn in places. If there was any doubt before, Dean’s theory was now confirmed; Cas had been restrained and he’d fought back, hard. 

Dean tore his gaze away to the floor, but that only angered him more when he noticed dark bruising around Cas’ ankles. He was going to find out who did this to Cas and he was going to kill them slowly.

The jeans fell with a splat, heavy with water and gunk from the forest. Dean reached down to grab them but Cas ducked down with a pained grunt and clung to the jeans, stepping out of them and throwing them onto the bench behind him where he’d been sitting. 

“It’s all right, Dean. I can do the rest.”

“Okay,” Dean agreed, straightening up. “I, uh, I’m gonna shower too. I’m covered in mud and stuff from the forest. I’ll just be in the next shower over, okay? Just on the other side of that wall. Just let me know if you, uh, need anything.”

Dean stepped aside and walked to the other end of the bench, where he got busy getting undressed. He did it quickly, not looking over at Cas. He didn’t know which would feel worse; if Cas was watching him change or if he _wasn’t_ watching. 

Regardless, he stepped into the shower beside Cas’ stall and turned on the water, shuddering at the frigid temperature. He’d let Cas have most of the hot water. He needed it more.

Over the splashing of water against tile, he heard Cas’ feet pad into the shower that was already running. In normal circumstances, Dean would have to force himself to think of dead puppies and dancing corpses, hoping to disgust or distract himself enough that he wouldn’t think about Cas completely naked in the next stall over. But the mental images he recalled of bruises around Cas’ limbs was enough to keep him soberly infuriated and drowning in a vicious need for vengeance.

He didn’t have to endure the cold water for much longer, because after just enough time for him to scrub shampoo into his hair and begin to rinse it out, he heard a sharp inhalation of breath and that thin, strained keening again. 

“Cas?” Dean called out.

He got no answer. 

“Cas, are you okay?”

Realistically, he could have waited longer for a response, but Dean walked out of his stall and grasped the tiled wall between them, peering into Cas’ shower. 

Cas was standing facing Dean, with his back to the shower stream, the water pounding at his shoulders and neck, most of it cascading down his back, but some trickling down his collarbone and down his chest. 

He had his hands tangled in his hair, his face bowed and buried in his bruised arms. Dean watched his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe, his face, whatever of it was visible, was squeezed in pain. Dean’s eyes traveled down to the drain, watching dirt come off Cas’ body, swirling into it. He noticed the water tinted pink, then red. 

“Fuck, you’re bleeding still,” Dean said in a burst, rushing forward. Cas arms came down fast, one snapping to the side, his palm splayed against the tile wall that had been between them, his other hand reaching out to Dean. When Dean closed the space between them, he let Cas grip his shoulder tightly.

“Cas?” Dean barked, ducking a bit to catch Cas’ eye. “Where else are you hurt?”

Cas’ lips were pressed together tightly, not answering. So Dean reached up and felt the back of his head, scrubbing fingers through his hair to find a wound. The fingers traveled down his neck and he was able to slide his hand down Cas’ back until he reached the small of it. 

He wasn’t able to go any further because Cas rapidly reached back and pulled Dean’s hand away, linking their fingers clumsily and stepping forward, crushing their lips together.

Dean inhaled sharply against Cas’ lips, thrown off guard. He yanked away, staring at Cas, who still looked like he was in a tremendous amount of pain, wincing and breathing shallowly, unevenly. 

“Cas, you’re bleeding, what are you d _—_ ”

Cas quickly let go of the wall, leaving a muddy handprint behind. His hand went up to Dean’s face, curling around his neck. They kissed again, wet lips slipping against each other, tongues brushing languidly. 

Dean let himself have this. His lips opened further, letting Cas in deeper. The fingers he had in Cas’ hair flexed, dragging his nails over his scalp. 

Then it was over. Cas pulled away. His beautiful, clear blue eyes were wide with pain, though when he spoke, his whisper was rough and wrecked with gratitude. 

“It’s really you.” 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Cas smiled. It reached his eyes and it made Dean’s hands shake.

Flashing Cas his own small smile, he pointed up to his face, laughing anxiously. “Yeah. In the flesh. Green eyes and everything.”

“Yes,” Cas laughed with tears in his eyes, nodding happily and looking absolutely heartbroken at the same time.

Unbothered by their nakedness, Castiel stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck, holding him tightly. Dean’s heart pounded in his chest. He felt misery settle in deep inside him, knowing this was too good to be true. 

As he wrapped his arms tightly around Cas’ ribs, palms flat against his back, he squeezed his eyes shut, tears stinging in the corners.

Something bad was going to happen, he could feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter and the previous chapter were inspired by the run-away and non-con scene in the 2013 Evil Dead movie.


	13. Chapter 13

Everyone was very quiet the next morning. 

All residents of the bunker barely exchanged words as they shuffled around the kitchen, making coffee and piling food onto their plates. Sam had been up first for a run and had made everyone breakfast. The smell of pancakes and bacon mixed with fresh fruit and orange juice wafted through the kitchen. The scent would normally be pleasing and exciting, but all the men looked solemn and the air was filled with apprehension and uncertainty.

Kevin kept staring angrily at Cas, while Dean and Sam exchanged grim looks. Castiel had his eyes down, endlessly twirling a stir stick around in his untouched cup of coffee. He looked up in surprise when Sam slid a plate in front of him with a pancake and some pieces of fruit.

“Eat, Cas,” Sam urged gently. “You have to eat.”

Cas’ eyes quickly swiveled back down to the plate, nodding. Dean watched him slowly stab his fork through a strawberry and forcibly push it into his mouth like he was being coerced into eating it at gunpoint. He barely chewed before swallowing and Dean notice his shoulders shrug a bit as he tried to resist a gag.

Concerned, Dean speared a strawberry from his plate and chewed on it thoughtfully. It was sweet and delicious, leaving a burst of flavour spread on his tongue. 

Cas was staring down at the plate, coloured drained from his face.

“What’s up, Cas?” Dean asked quietly, but the silence in the kitchen allowed him no privacy. Sam and Kevin looked up at them, eyes darting from Dean to Cas.

“Not hungry,” Cas murmured. His stomach betrayed him as it rumbled loudly.

“Kinda sounds like you are,” Dean pointed out, trying to smile encouragingly, but Cas looked over at him through wide eyes.

“Everything tastes like ash.”

Kevin snorted darkly, shooting Sam a look. “Yeah, thanks for the breakfast, Sam, it tastes like ash.”

Sam frowned disapprovingly at Kevin and Dean threw his fork down so that he didn’t throw it between Kevin’s eyes. 

“Leave him alone, Kevin,” Sam ordered quietly.

Kevin pushed his plate away. “Okay, so we’re not going to talk about yesterday and about how he pointed a knife at me then?”

Cas looked tortured, rasping out, “Kevin, I’m _sorry—_ ”

“Kevin, Cas didn’t mean it,” Sam said at the same time that Dean also spoke over him, pointing at Kevin angrily and snapping, “This is not about you.”

Kevin threw his hands up in the air, looking furious. “Are we not going to talk about _anything_? Cas stole your car, wrecked it, there’s a big bad trying to possess him, we have no idea where we are in the ritual, oh and he _threatened me with an angel blade—”_

“Stop,” Dean commanded, pointing at Kevin aggressively. “This stops. We’re gonna figure all this shit out. Today, Kevin,” he purposefully said as his skeptical young friend rolled his eyes. “We’ll talk it all out today. I’m gonna go get the window fixed in the car in half an hour, which gives you and Sam enough time to get all of the notes, and scrolls, and the book together. When I get back, we’ll show Crowley.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “So we’re showing Crowley now?”

Cas’ head tilted curiously and Dean sighed into his hands, scrubbing them over his face. “We tried it our way and our way is too slow. Our way ended up being messy.”

“You’re going to show Crowley the book,” Castiel asked slowly. “You want... the crossroads demon to read the book?”

“You mean the King of Hell? You heard him a few weeks back; he can read all of those ancient languages.”

“Yeah. And hell, maybe he’ll know what this thing is,” Dean continued. “As much as I don’t want Crowley knowing what’s going on here, I feel like we’re running out of time before that thing comes to get you, Cas.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “Right.”

Dean reached back and pulled his phone from his back pocket, clicking it on for a moment, “I’m gonna head out now to get the window replaced. The auto glass place opens soon. I should be back in a few hours and then we’ll handle this,” he said, eyes flickering at Kevin, who gave his pancakes a critical eyebrow raise.

Dean got up, shoved a folded up remainder of his pancake into his mouth and wiped his hands on his jeans. 

“Take Regan with you,” Kevin said coldly. 

“ _Kevin!_ ” Sam scolded with outrage, looking at him with a look that was a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. Kevin continued to eye Cas suspiciously. 

While he probably didn’t understand the reference exactly, Cas looked like he got the gist of Kevin’s jab. He swallowed hard as he stared at Kevin, his eyes regretful. Dean could tell from the look on his face that Cas had about forty different apologies on his tongue that he was holding back.

While he had a million things he could say to Kevin at that moment, Dean decided they needed to start getting shit done so that they could move on. He placed a hand on Cas’ shoulder blade, fingers gentle.

“What do you say, Cas?” he asked. “Up for a ride and some fresh air?”

Cas looked up at him, all wide eyes and dark circles and a small frown. He nodded quickly and murmured, “Yes. Just let me go change.”

He slipped off the bench and left the room quickly. Dean turned his attention on Kevin, who watched Cas disappear with wary narrowed eyes.

Dean opened his mouth to snap at Kevin, his teeth gritted, but Sam sensed a disturbance in the force and jumped in before the tension could thicken. 

With gentle concern, Sam furrowed his brow at Dean and asked at a low volume, “Dean, are you sure it’s a great idea to leave the bunker right now? We have so much to figure out. Can’t the Impala wait?”

Sam was right, of course. The Impala could wait. Upon further inspection, the back wheel had been fine though the bumper tail light was smashed to shit. He couldn’t open the trunk but otherwise, the vehicle was fine. He could fix it up with a few afternoons in the garage. The window was cracked though, and while it wasn’t an emergency, Dean couldn’t stand to look at it, knowing the split was there because Cas’ head had collided with it. It was a cruel reminder of everything that transpired yesterday. 

Also, he needed an excuse to get Cas out of the bunker and be alone with him. He had to find out what happened in the forest yesterday. He couldn’t get the haunting image out of his head of curling, angry bruises around Cas’ limbs, indicative that there had been a struggle. 

Castiel had _struggled_. Dean was sick with the thought.

“It can wait,” Dean agreed. “But I think Cas is, uh, kind of embarrassed about yesterday and I figure he’d tell me more about it if it was just me and him.”

“But him going with you was my idea?” Kevin interjected, raising an eyebrow.

Dean’s lips flattened into a hard line and his eyes twitched narrowly at Kevin. “Believe or not, Kev, I was planning on asking him to come with me in a gentler way than you did.”

When Kevin returned to his food with a sigh, Sam turned back to Dean, nodding. “Okay. Fair. Cas’ll be more open with you, he always has been.” Sam smiled knowingly at Dean, who felt a quick flush heat his cheeks. 

“We’ll be ready when you get back.”

Cas stood up from his chair beside Dean and paced the small waiting area of the auto glass shop. This was the third time he’d done this; gotten up and walked around, touching everything and running his hands through his hair, pushing his bangs back, twisting the strands between his fingers. Dean thought he was messing his hair up in all the right ways, but he was also aware it was an incredibly inappropriate time to perv over Cas because he didn’t look well and probably needed to feel cared for, not lusted after.

Despite knowing this, Dean’s eyes dragged down Cas’ back, the curve of his ass, and down the length of his muscular legs, enjoying the way the black jeans fit Cas in all the right places. He also enjoyed the subtle cling of a waffle-texture dark grey henley shirt as it clung to Castiel’s shoulders and arms. It was more fitted through the torso than usual since he’d actually thought to layer it over a black crew-neck t-shirt. 

Recalling the kiss from last night, Dean took the time to enjoy the view, and felt with a squeeze of excitement, that he might actually be able to act on it, to maybe tell Cas how good he looked, because _something_ did exist between them. The kisses and embraces they shared in the showers last night had to mean Cas felt the same way back. Despite what Cas had said to him in the library _—_ had it only been last night? _—_ Dean felt slightly more confident in their connection. 

Maybe Sam had been right _—_ it was the book that made Cas say those things. It seemed that Cas, when he was in his right mind, actually did return Dean’s feelings.

Dean was excited for this book business to be over so that his love life would stop being so confusing. 

“Cas, quit pacing. You’re driving me crazy,” Dean lied. He patted the chair beside him. “Sit. Relax. The old dude said the repair would take an hour. We’ve only been here for like thirty-five minutes.”

When Cas turned to him, licking his lips and nodding, looking stressed, Dean gestured to an old chipped Ikea table in the corner that housed a dusty looking coffee machine and limp tower of styrofoam cups. “Grab a coffee, Cas. You look exhausted.”

“I don’t think I could drink it,” Cas murmured, pressing a hand to his stomach.

“Well, grab me one then, would you?”

Cas poured him a cup and walked over, handing it to him as he sat down gingerly, making a hissing sound as he relaxed back into the seat. 

Dean raised the cup to his lips and frowned, pausing before the rim touched his lips. This was his chance to ask about the bruising. He had to ask about what happened in the forest. They had only been minutes behind him, what could have happened in that short amount of time that would result in those markings? Whatever it had been, Cas seemed reluctant to talk about it _—_ to say the least _—_ so Dean would have to tread carefully.

Dean sipped from the small styrofoam cup and cleared his throat. “You all right?”

Cas’ eyes flickered at him, then away quickly, nodding. “Yes,” he replied. “I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean took another sip from the coffee. It was kind of gross, but drinkable. It reminded him of Cas’ comments at breakfast. He tilted his head a bit towards him, eyes searching Cas’ profile. “What was with the ‘ash’ thing you said to Sam this morning, Cas?”

Cas’ eyes, which had taken a slightly wide, worried quality to them since he’d woken up, darted over to meet Dean’s gaze. Licking his lips again, he replied hesitantly, “The food. Everything, it tastes like ash. Burnt. Or sometimes like earth. Like mud.”

Dean swallowed, not wanting the gross coffee anymore. He lowered it to his lap, not breaking eye contact with Cas. 

“Why do I feel like this ash thing isn’t just about Sam’s cooking this morning?”

Cas looked almost regretful as he stared at Dean, eyes flickering around his face. “It’s not. It’s been like this for…for a while now. I’ve had no appetite. The thought of food makes me want to vomit…until this morning. I woke feeling starved. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“But the strawberries _—_ ”

Cas’ lips twisted with disgusted. “They were vile. It was like they burst into ashes on my tongue.”

Dean leaned his head back, hitting a rickety business licence hung on the wall. He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly, carefully through his lips. Why were their lives getting more and more complicated and annoying as the days passed?

Dean pulled his head back down and turned to look back at Cas, who was still staring at him, eyes shadowed under furrowed brows. 

“Cas…what happened yesterday?”

Cas immediately broke their gaze and Dean noticed him tugging the sleeves of his shirt protectively over his wrists. As Dean stared at Cas’ profile, he watched his adam’s apple bob and colour drain from his face.

“I can’t. I can’t.” Cas’ voice sounded rough suddenly, like his throat was painfully dry. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Jesus, Cas.” Dean shook his head. “What could have happened out there? Where did those bruises come from?”

“ _Stop_ ,” Cas growled suddenly, losing his desperate tone. The noise in his throat sound threatening. For a moment Cas looked furious, his head turning to Dean sharply. But then the wild look in his eye disappeared and his teeth unclenched. He looked as shocked as Dean felt at his sudden furious reaction.

They both stared at each other, Cas’ face paling further. He quickly looked almost upset, with his eyes shining vaguely. Dean saw him swallow thickly before he said very quietly, with a rasp to his voice, “Dean, I’m so sorry. Something…something is wrong with me.”

Dean reached over and took Cas’ hand where it was limp in his lap. His fingers curled around Cas’, giving them a squeeze.

“Don’t apologize,” Dean said firmly. “It’s… I’m sure it’s the book. Reading the book was stupid, but you did it and now stuff is messed up, but it’s not anything we haven’t dealt with before. We’ll figure it out and you’ll feel okay again.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt okay since the fall,” Cas admitted. He looked away from Dean, looking around. “I’m not sure I know what it feels like to feel okay.”

Dean slid an arm around Cas’ neck and pulled him closer. His heart pounded and he hoped Cas wouldn’t pull away. 

Cas didn’t pull away. His hands actually reached up and curled around Dean’s forearm, holding on tightly. 

Turning his head towards him, Dean buried his nose in his soft hair and pressed his lips against the side of Cas’ head, eyes shutting for a moment to enjoy the delicate, warm smell of Cas, the most alluring scent of linen and cinnamon… and maybe something more earthy. 

“Don’t,” Castiel said suddenly, dropping his hands and leaning away. Dean snatched his hands back, suddenly fearful again like he’d been in the library. 

But Cas didn’t seem biting this time, just hesitant. His pale blue eyes flickered over to Dean, then away.

“Don’t do that. I mean, you don’t have to. You were very kind to me last night, Dean. I appreciated your comfort and… and thank you for not pushing me away. But I know, I know you only were trying to be comforting and I shouldn’t have touched you like that. I know how you feel about this vessel. I can’t imagine how crushing it must be because _—_ ” Cas inhaled shakily. “I mean, I know how you feel about me, but I know this isn’t the body you wanted. You don’t have to entertain this, or do something that disgusts you _—_ ”

Cas was ranting and he sounded a little heartbroken. He sounded like he was twisted about this, like he was succumbing to a wild train of thought, maybe confessing something that was eating at him, but all Dean could do was raise his hands to his face and bury it in them. 

“Fuck, Castiel. I… I’m so confused,” Dean admitted, running his hands up into his hair. “I mean, between this and what you said in the library, Cas...I mean, shit, you’re confusing me. Do you want _—_ ”

He was going to say, _“Do you want me or not? ‘Cause I want you. I want you so fucking bad. I want you all the time. I’ll take you in whatever body you’re in—”_ but he never got to say it. 

Cas abruptly got to his feet with a soft gasp of discomfort. He started to move towards the door.

“I… I have to step outside,” Cas breathed, pressing a hand to his stomach and running the other through his hair. “Just give me a minute. I just need air.”

Dean added that to the list of ‘things Cas picked up from the Winchesters’. Months ago Cas would have replied to that very same phrase with “but there’s oxygen in here too?”

He wasn’t going to fight him on it. Talking about what was going on between them had been nothing but perplexing. 

Dean sat back in his chair, nodding tiredly. “Sure.”

He watched Cas push the glass door open and walk out, disappearing to the left to where the garages were, seeking privacy. However, Dean got to his feet as soon as the jingling from the bell above the door stopped. He looked out and saw Cas bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. 

It occurred to him that he should follow Cas, that he should make sure he was okay. But Dean felt the pull of exhaustion, both physically and emotionally. 

Dean looked away and went back to his seat, sliding down into it and scrubbing his hands over his eyes.

So Cas still thought Dean didn’t want him because of the male vessel. What did Dean have to do to make him see that he didn’t care _—_ that, hell, he really, really liked that vessel?

No, he really, really _loved_ Castiel’s _body—_ not ‘vessel’ _—_ with the messy hair, and the blue eyes like the clear water he saw in pictures of tropical vacations. He loved the red flush over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and his long brown lashes. He loved the wide, dry lips and the lines across his forehead and the crows feet around his eyes when he laughed. He loved the feeling of his stubble under his hand and against his face, scrubbing against his own. 

He could look at his body all day, each time finding something new he enjoyed, and Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t wonder what those powerful thighs would feel like on either side of his head or hips, or _—_ fuck, even clapping against the back of his own. He frequently wondered what Cas’ cock looked like… and tasted like and felt like...

And that was just the physical stuff, which paled in comparison to how Dean felt about Cas in general. The unfaltering loyalty, the stubborn determination to always do good by people, the faith he had for the good in humanity… Nothing compared to him. Even though Dean teased him for his peculiarities, he never wished for them to end. 

Cas was inspiring and funny, even if he didn’t mean to be all the time. He was hundreds of years old but still unendingly curious. Castiel was fire and fury but also kindness and purity all wrapped in one beige trenchcoat. Of course, Dean had fallen in love with him. He was surprised that everyone Cas had ever met hadn’t fallen in love with him.

Dean’s eyes slid open. He hadn’t realised he had even closed them. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he began taking inventory of every beautiful thing that he loved about Castiel. That he was in love with.

He was in love with Castiel.

There, he’d said it. He’d admitted it. 

Dean lurched forward, sitting on the edge of his chair, his hand on his stomach now, feeling torn between enjoying the fluttering wings of butterflies, and feeling fright by the crushing feeling of anxiety in his chest. 

He was in love with Castiel. The ‘profound bond’ wasn’t a ‘connection’ or ‘intimacy’, it was love. He was in love with him. 

_That_ was what he needed to tell Cas to make him believe a cock and some stubble wasn’t going to stop them from surrendering to the pull of every atom in their bodies trying bring them together.

Dean set down the coffee cup on the table as he passed it, pushing open the door, looking around the front parking lot. It was empty of cars and devoid of any hot brunette with a killer ass and a set beautiful blue eyes that he was _in love with_.

“Cas?” Dean called out, turning towards the last place he’d seen Cas. But he wasn’t by the vending machine or tire-pressure air pump. 

The hair on Dean’s neck stood up suddenly, the excited flutter in his stomach turning into something more disquieting. He was suddenly hyper-aware of the quiet. 

He slowly approached the open garage door and walked inside.

The old, kind mechanic who had agreed to take Dean’s car in without an appointment, who called them both “son”, and introduced them to his grandsons…. That man was sprawled out on the shop floor, his body chest down but his head turned completely around, his face frozen in that horror-stricken expression. His throat was ripped out savagely, his trachea hanging from Cas’ fingers, his blood pooled around him, soaking the knees of Cas’ black jeans. 

Cas was kneeled beside the man’s body, his clothing splattered and his hands coated in thick, fresh blood, his shoulders heaving. 

Behind Cas, on either side of him, the old man’s grandsons were bleeding out on the floor. One lay on his side, his intestines pooling out onto the floor in a grotesque mess. By his feet, the other grandson was on his back, still alive - barely - but choking on his own blood as it oozed out of his mouth. His throat had been torn open. Dean saw his heaving chest slow.

“One,” Cas gasped wretchedly, his blue eyes wide and scared. “Two… three...”

“Cas, what _—_ ” Dean choked out, gesturing to the man on the floor and the bloody, flopping windpipe in Cas’ hand _—_ “Did you do this? Did you...kill these guys? Jesus, Cas, what have you done?”

But before Cas could answer, his eyes rolled back and he convulsed for a moment. In the next few moments, when he blinked, Cas’ eyes were completely white, his lips spread in a villainous smile, every crease in his face etched with glee. 

“Don’t worry, Dean,” he said. “They’ll be back.”

The voice wasn’t his. It was Cas’ inflections and enunciation, but it was deep, several octaves lower, and it reverberated, making Dean’s chest thrum with very vibration of his vocal cords. 

The sound was straight out of a horror movie.

Dean stood there and he knew he should reach for the gun tucked in the back of his jeans, but all he could do was watch when Cas slowly raised his hand and dragged his tongue over his palm and up around his finger, licking off blood and swallowing it with a groan. 

“Good news,” he chuckled. “Not hungry anymore. They all tasted…so delicious...”

The sound was so horrible that Dean felt like pressing his hands over his ears. But the rumbling, evil laugh kicked Dean’s ass into gear and he reached back for his handgun, clicking off the safety and pointing the barrel at Cas. He was furious to see his hands shaking, the weapon trembling in his hands. His palms began sweating.

“Get away from him,” Dean commanded, but colour rushed to his face as his voice wavered.

Cas’ laughed again, squeezing the trachea in his hand, the blood running down over his forearms, which were bare with the sleeves rolled up.

“Or what?” the deep voice mocked. “You’ll shoot me?”

Its gaze never left Dean’s as it raised Cas’ arm slowly and licked a dribble of blood that ran down his forearm. Dean’s hands readjusted on the handle of the gun and he swallowed hard, not moving. 

Cas grinned wider. “It tastes so good. Castiel tastes so good too. So pure _—_ that fresh, brand new soul... I can taste it all over his skin. Wanna taste?”

It stretched Cas’ arm out to him, its slow dark laughter rumbling.

“Get out of him,” Dean growled, finally finding his feet, stepping forward with a determined gait. “Whatever you are, you get out of him. I swear _—_ ”

He was ashamed to admit he almost jumped when the thing ripped the trachea in half and raised it to Cas’ lips. Before he could let Cas do anything more grotesque, Dean pressed the trigger.

The creature didn’t even flinch when the warning shot kicked up cement and sent pieces flying through the air just beside him. Instead, it tilted its head back and laughed. The sound was infuriating and absolutely frightening.

“GET OUT OF HIM!” Dean bellowed, losing his patience and feeling twisted by the sound of Cas’ laugh morphed into a sound straight from Hell.

“Never,” the thing hissed. “It feels so good in here. So warm and _—_ oh, but you know all about that.”

“What?” Dean breathed.

The thing tapped at Cas’ temple, smearing the old man’s blood into Cas’ skin. “Wait _—_ sorry. That was _me_. Well, it was _you,_ but it was really just me. He’s so warm, Dean, so tight. You should hear them, the filthy sounds he makes when he thinks you’re fucking him _—_ ”

Dean stepped forward again, squaring his shoulders. “Shut up! Shut up!” he snarled. “I’ll shoot you, I swear!”

“Kill him then,” it hissed, face twisted with exhilaration. Its wide eyes glittered madly. “Kill him, you fucking coward! Put a bullet in his brain! I bet his insides are just as pretty as his outsides! I wonder what they’d look like splattered all over the floor? Come on, Dean, end his miserable existence.”

Another warning shot dented a metal box of tools on Cas’ other side.

Dean stepped closer. He was so close now that his boot curled down into the puddle of blood. 

Cas’ head turned up to look at him and the white eyes stared at him unblinkingly. His chest heaved erratically. The thing jerked, its arm dropping the mutilated body part onto the ground with a splat.

“DO IT, BITCH!” Cas roared viciously, the deep, echoing vocal patterns encapsulating corruption and evil. When Dean flinched, the thing’s shoulders shook and it began to giggle. “You don’t have the guts.”

Dean pressed the muzzle of the gun between Cas’ eyes, his trembling intensifying, his arms feeling like his very skin was shaking off of his flesh. His heart slammed in his chest.

The thing suddenly gasped. The sound was painful, dragging, and desperate. For a moment, Cas trembled violently and his lids fluttered. With one last violent tremor in his shoulders, blue eyes rolled back down before widening and looking up at Dean with wild terror.

“Kill me!” 

It was his voice _—_ Castiel’s _—_ his real voice. Cas looked down at the gored dead man and a horrible sob was wrenched from him. Dean watched him look at his bloody hands, his mouth open like a scream was mere moments from passing his lips. He looked from one hand to the other, over and over, breaths coming out loud and wrenching, his chest heaving. 

“Kill me, Dean,” he wept. “P-Please, before it comes back _—_ ”

And then his eyes rolled back. In horror, Dean watched the blue pupils disappear again, and when the thick brown lashes finished fluttering, white wide eyes remained.

“‘ _Kill me’,”_ the thing mocked, Cas’ laughter ringing out horribly, deep and hellish through the garage. “He has too much faith in you. _Stupid_ fucking meatsuit _—_ ”

The butt of Dean’s gun came down hard on Cas’ temple and the white irises vanished, disappearing under eyelids that slid closed. Dean moved fast to catch Cas as he collapsed sideways, getting him with an arm around his shoulders before he hit the ground. 

Panicked, Dean looked back out into the street, though there was really nothing to worry about because no cars had come along the unpopulated service road all morning. The garage was just down the street from the bunker, in the middle of the industrial area by the power plant. He could have them home in minutes, but he had some things to do first.

With a grunt, Dean heaved Cas into his arms and yanked open the backseat door to the Impala. He sat Cas in the back. Frantically, he rushed to the front seat and popped open the glove compartment. 

When he returned to Cas, he had a pair of handcuffs in his hands, though getting them on him proved difficult with the dead weight and the slip of blood around his wrists. Eventually, he managed to cuff both of Cas’ hands to the bars of passenger seat headrest. 

With one last glance at Cas, Dean hauled himself out of the backseat and ran across the garage, bursting into a small dirty office. He looked around wildly, spotting a computer straight out of the 90’s hooked up to a set of monitors displaying security camera footage. 

Dean didn’t hesitate as he grabbed the CPU and ripped it out of place, sparks flying from the back, making him flinch. He tossed it out the door, into the waiting room that he and Cas had occupied only minutes earlier. Dean searched around the office, checking under the desk and up on shelves for anything strong enough to eradicate the computer’s hard drive. 

He found a baseball bat behind the door. Gripping the handle tightly in his hands, Dean walked out into the waiting room from the office and raised his hands to swing the baseball bat down onto the clunky CPU.

He had to stop when a slow, deep animalistic clicking growl made his stomach drop. Dean slowly lowered the bat and turned his head to follow the noise.

The old man was alive again. Or rather, his body was alive again, reanimated, standing in the doorway from the garage, his head still twisted backward. Dean stared at the man’s face, watching blood from his ripped up and torn throat drip down over his shoulder blades and audibly onto the floor. The old man’s kind face was disgusting now; his skin was molted and rotting, his eyes were white, and the crepey skin under his eyes and his lips were smudged black.

The staring contest lasted only a moment. 

The undead, possessed mechanic-thing snarled and charged backward towards Dean, its arms making sickening popping and tearing noises as they snapped back unnaturally, reaching out. 

With no hesitation, Dean swung at the thing, knocking it back into the doorway with a hit to the stomach. Without a pause, he rushed forward with a growl and swung again, bringing it the bat down on the old man’s shoulder, instantly dislocating it. 

The old man’s bruised mouth opened, releasing a roar that wasn’t human _—_ or even supposed to be possible with his trachea fucking ripped out. Dean tried not to be sick as he watched the insides of the man’s throat flap gruesomely. 

Despite his disgust, he stepped back at the roar, feeling wind rushing past him and around the room, certifications and framed pictures crashing to the floor, glass shattering all over the dirty checkered tile. 

Dean got a sturdy grip on the wooden handle again, swallowing hard as the thing charged at him once more, bloody hand outstretched. 

“Head’s up!” Dean snarled, and swung to the side, aiming for the thing’s head. 

He miscalculated. The blow resulted in thing’s throat exploding open, struck with the tip of the bat. He watched its head flip back, spine shatter, and roll back, hitting the ground and only stopping when it hit the wall with a _thunk_. 

Dean stepped back, slipping on shards of broken glass, gagging a bit at the sight of the headless body swaying and falling back, joining its molted, rotted head on the floor.

“Fucking disgusting,” Dean whispered, shaking himself out of a wave of nausea. He’d seen gross, gory things before, but even he had limits. Despite that, he slid his phone out of his pocket and took a picture to show Sam once he got home.

Dean made quick work out of destroying the computer with a few violent swings of a baseball bat. The security cameras outside were downed with a few well-aimed bullets. Any and all evidence of his and Cas’ being there was eliminated, including copies of his quote and the old man’s appointment book.

He took the baseball bat back out to the garage. 

The grandsons were still lying on the floor, the one who had been clinging to life was still now, eyes glassy and lifeless as they stared at the spinning ceiling fan. 

The other looked grotesque, his skin darkened and eyes pale. He was dead… at least until Dean leaned down to check his pulse. The rotted looking finger twitched and Dean knew the boys were very close to following in their grandfather’s undead footsteps. 

He finished the grandsons like he finished their grandfather. 

Panting from exertion and adrenaline, Dean stepped over the body of the nice-old-man-turned-gross-melty-zombie and threw himself into the Impala. He grabbed the keys from the passenger seat and aggressively threw the car into reverse. His baby kicked up clouds of dirt as he twisted the Impala onto the road. Dean coughed around the dust as it curled into his windowless driver side door.

The dust cleared out quickly as he sped down the road, desperate to get Cas to the bunker. It would only take them a few minutes to drive through the industrial area, up the hill past the factories, and around the plant. 

Dean thought he had enough time to get there before Cas woke, but as the Impala picked up speed and rumbled under them, Dean heard a pained hiss behind him, and saw Cas’ eyes slid open, his head that had been lolled forward suddenly raised.

Dean didn’t realise he was holding his breath until lucid blue eyes met his in the mirror.

“Dean,” Cas breathed miserably. 

Dean’s hands made a sharp noise on the steering wheel as his clammy hands squeezed it. He turned his face for a second to look at Cas. 

“Cas?” he asked cautiously. “Is that all you in there?”

He got his answer when Cas’ face twisted into a tormented grimace and he looked about two seconds from a breakdown. 

“What did I do?” he rasped, staring at his confined hands up by the headrest, covered in slick fresh blood and bits of flesh and tissue.

Dean focused back on the road, partially because he couldn’t stand the tortured look on Cas’ face, and partially because he couldn’t bear the sight of the gore all over him. 

“You fucking killed those guys, Cas,” Dean explained, his voice clipped and angry, even though he knew it hadn’t been Cas who’d done it.

“No.” Dean heard Cas’ breath picking up, shallow and uneven, rattling in his chest. With distress, behind him Cas moaned, “ _No._ ”

“Cas, is that thing in you right now?” Dean asked firmly, eyes darting from the road to the reflection in his rearview mirror. Goosebumps raised and tightened the skin on his arms at the thought of Cas changing into that thing in his backseat. “Tell me.”

Cas ignored him and pressed his forehead to the headrest in front of him. “You should have killed me, Dean.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “No one is getting killed, Cas!”

Cas’ eyes squeezed shut, his shoulders shaking.

They drove in silence for barely a minute before Dean realised something chilling. He felt the rise of panic in his chest, but he asked carefully, “Castiel… did it come for you? Did you let it _—_ that thing _—_ in?”

Cas raised his head and watery blue eyes that embodied suffering and guilt looked back at him in the mirror. 

“I… yes.”

Dean gritted his teeth, and felt the stinging of tears in the corner of his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. Instead, he clenched his jaw, and said through his teeth, “I told you not to listen to the voices, Cas.”

“It came to me in dreams,” Cas explained, and Dean thought he sounded desperate, pleading with him to understand. “It told me it would help me with the angels, it _—_ it would give me the power to re-open Heaven _—_ ”

“And you were stupid enough to believe that!?” Dean burst out with a yell, his eyes swiveling up to the mirror in a rage. 

“No!” Cas pressed. “I didn’t _—_ at least, I don’t think I did. I... It initially wiped my memory, I don’t think I believed it, I think I threatened to tell you about their plan. I-I can’t remember clearly. But Dean it came to me in dreams. I tried to listen to only you, not the voices. But it pretended to _—_ ”

Unable to hear any more bullshit, Dean interrupted Cas with the loud, thumping sound of his hand slamming down on the wheel. It shut Cas up and made Dean’s hand ache. His eyes were alight with anger. 

“Why the _fuck_ wouldn’t you tell me!?” he shouted furiously. He took a turn that was too wide and the Impala’s wheels shrieked, only furthering his anger. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel apologized profusely. His handcuffs clinked against the metal poles of the headrest as he balled his fists and the wide turn jolted him sideways. “I thought I still had time.”

“Why? Why would you think that?”

“When I drove away from the bunker, I heard a voice,” Cas explained through panicked swallows. “It said something about the ritual almost being complete, something about a marking. I-I thought we could stop it before the marking.”

At least they were communicating openly about this bullshit now, Dean thought. His worry trumped his anger though, so Dean asked with less fury, “The marking? What is the marking, Castiel?”

“I … I don’t know.”

“Fucking _great,”_ Dean snapped. “Can the thing hear us right now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Cas whispered. Dean watched him inhale through his nose and exhale through his lips, eyes shut. Dean recognized the behavior. He could hear Sam’s gentle guidance in his own head: _“In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe, man, breathe.”_

Dean’s anger began to drastically fade away. He directed the car onto the side of the road, just past the doors to the bunker. Throwing the car in park, he turned to Cas, grasping one of his fists. It immediately opened and fingers wrapped around Dean’s hand. 

“Breathe, Cas,” Dean ordered.

As Cas’ hyperventilating got worse, Dean undid his seatbelt with one hand and turned around on the bench completely, drawing one knee up onto the seat. The top of his head grazed the ceiling. With continued gentleness, he reached a hand forward and ran it down the side of Cas’ head to stroke his hair. 

He told him to breathe again, tucking hair behind his ear and pushing his bangs back, noticing a patch damp with blood. 

He’d re-opened his wound from the crash with the butt of the gun, he realised.

Cas took shuddered breaths, and pushed them back out through a small part in his pursed lips, his throat working. He didn’t seem like he was getting worse, so Dean squeezed his hand a few times. 

Cas opened his eyes and looked sideways at Dean, his eyes clear and blue.

Dean searched those eyes and asked carefully, “Can you control it, Cas? The thing?”

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted. His eyes darted around for a moment, then he amended, “but I don’t think it’s coming back soon.”

“Okay,” Dean said quietly. Then with a curt nod, he repeated, “Okay.”

He reached back into his pocket and slowly took out the keys to the cuffs. “I’m gonna unlock you now, but just to get out of the car, then we’re putting these back on. You…understand, right, Cas?”

Castiel nodded. When he flashed Dean a tight, fake smile, Dean was sad he had learned how to do that in the first place. 

Dean let go of his hand and got out, rounding the car to Cas’ side. He wrenched open the door and leaned in, pushing the key into one of the metal cuffs around Cas’ wrists. 

Firmly, he took Cas’ hands and helped him out of the car, a gesture that was unnecessary but was more for Dean’s comfort than Cas’. 

For a moment, the two men stood just outside the Impala, staring at each other with fear and regret, both respectively wondering what was going to happen. But Dean looked down, picking up Cas’ hands again to clip the cuff back on him. 

Cas stared down at his wrists, mouth pressed into a tight line, and his shoulders stiff. 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean murmured. Cas nodded, a few locks of brown messy hair from his fringe slipping down, brushing over his forehead. Dean reached up and pushed them away. 

“Come on.” Dean put a hand on Cas’ lower back and urged him forward. Together, they entered the bunker.


	14. Chapter 14

The book, all of Sam and Kevin’s notes, and the dirty scrolls were piled on one end of a library table. While Dean could see that Cas was himself, and hell, it was kind of too late to shelter him from the evil contained in the pages, Dean steered Cas to the other end of the table, away from the book. He pulled out a chair for him to sit on. Cas murmured thank you and sat down, his bloody, restrained hands resting limply in his lap.

He and Dean looked at each other with that regretful, sad stare again, before Dean smiled tightly at him. “Hang tight, Cas. I’ll go get Sam and Kevin, then we’ll talk to Crowley and get this sorted out.”

Cas nodded and looked away, eyes on the book rested down the length of the table.

Dean hovered for a moment, not wanting to leave Cas alone, but he forced himself to leave the library and cross the war room.

He didn’t look for Sam and Kevin for long. They walked towards him down the bedroom hallway, Sam rolling down his sleeve.

“Hey,” Sam greeted gravely. “I got a syringe of blood ready for our talk with Crowley—Dean, why are you covered in blood?”

Dean looked down at himself, noticing blood splattered over his chest and shoulders. It was all over his hands from both the fight with the rotted zombie-thing and from carrying Cas to the car. He looked up at Sam, who was staring at him with wide, confused eyes.

“We’ve got a problem.”

Sam and Kevin exchanged ominous, concerned looks.

“Yeah. Cas kinda killed some people.”

“Why do I feel like you’re not gonna say it was in self-defense?” Kevin groaned.

“It was not self-defense.”

Sam gaped at him. “What happened?”

“Cas left the room to get some air,” Dean explained, trying to wipe his hands on his pants. “When I went to check on him, I found him kneeling beside the mechanic…whose head he had turned three-hundred and sixty-five degrees around.” Dean gestured to his throat with a grimace. “He ripped out his freaking throat with his hands.”

“Guess he didn’t need to use his teeth after all,” Kevin squeaked, paling.

Dean ignored him. “He got his grandsons, too. His… his eyes were all white and his voice… it was like something out of The Exorcist, Sam. It wasn’t him, he wasn’t anywhere in there. I mean, Cas kept trying to take over, but whatever had been coming for him… I-I think got him. I think he let it in. He—he said yes.”

Sam ran his hands through his hair, looking stressed. He swore under his breath. “I can’t believe this. After everything we did to protect him from that book...”

Kevin’s mouth had dropped open and his eyes were wide. “Why would he do that?”

Dean felt an abrupt urge to defend Cas. “He says he was like, tricked, or something.”

“He said yes…” Sam repeated, eyes shining. “I can’t believe this.”

“I know,” Dean breathed. “He was fine at first. Well, I mean, he was kind of acting weird. Saying he was hungry and in pain and stuff—”

“Where is now?” Sam breathed, eyes wide and alert, looking over Dean’s shoulder towards the war room.

“In the library.”

“In the library? Alone?!” Sam pushed past him and Dean spun on his heel, following his brother, Kevin in close pursuit as well.

“Sam, he’s himself right now. He said he didn’t think it was coming back anytime soon—”

“And you just trust him?”

Dean pursed his lips, his pace quickening. “Yes. Uh, no. I—”

“You are blind when it comes to Castiel, Dean!” Sam scolded. Dean felt a flash of shame, and perhaps, some anger. But he knew Sam was right. Sam went on, shaking his head as they swept down the steps into the war room. “It’s getting out of control, Dean. I know shit is happening between you two, and you’re trying to be protective, but you’re being reckless—”

Dean’s fingers balled into fists. How could Sam just throw that in his face? “So what if I’m being protective? _He’s_ the one being affected by this fucking book. Listen, he didn’t kill the guy on purpose—something made him do it. Cas was really freaked out, Sam. This is scary for him too.”

“There he goes,” Kevin groused, “making Cas the victim here—”

Dean spun on Kevin, teeth gritted. “He was himself the whole drive back—”

“Oh, so like three minutes?” Sam exclaimed as they stepped up into the library. Dean pushed forward, turning from Kevin. He opened his mouth to argue back, but suddenly came to a dead stop behind Sam, who had frozen.

“We’re stopping,” Kevin said in surprise, jumping when he nearly ran into Dean’s back as he turned the corner. “Why are we stopping?”

Cas was standing with his back to them, over the edge of the second library table, shoulders hunched and his head bowed. By the way his elbow kept twitching back and to the side, Dean could tell by his range of motion he was no longer cuffed.

Sam, Dean, and Kevin all held their breath. They could hear wet tearing and slick slicing sounds, cut intermittently by Cas’ hissed breaths.

Dean was the first to move, his steps careful as he approached Cas, the hairs on the back of his neck standing.

Something was wrong.

“Cas,” Dean said carefully.

Cas stopped, his body freezing, his head turning slowly in the direction of Dean’s voice. As he turned, his neck popped and cracked, his haggard breathing deep and predatory.

When Dean got close enough, he looked down at the scene. The book was spread out in between Cas’ arms on the table, open to the back cover. The lining of the back cover had been torn out, and a series of symbols etched right into the leather jumped out at him.

Cas’ hands were definitely freed. The cuffs swung from one of his wrists, clanging against the table. Bruising was blossoming across the free wrist - it looked broken.

Dean’s eyes traveled up to Cas’ arms, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, blood sliding down his forearms and dripping down onto the book, dribbling over the edge of the table onto the library floor from symbols carved deeply into his arms.

In Cas’ hand was a blood-slicked letter opener. Dean watched Cas spring back into action, sinking it into his forearm, quickly slashing at the flesh there, beginning another symbol.

“STOP!” Dean yelled, darting forward to stop him.

Cas’ hand jerked up quickly. His face snapped up, his eyes white and wide, and a chilling smile spread across his lips. The letter opener was now pointed steadily between Dean’s eyes.

Dean froze.

“You wait your turn, Dean,” the voice said tauntingly, deep and rumbling. Its eyes flashed. “You’re next.”

A drop of blood dripped off the end of letter opener, joining a growing puddle on the floor from rivulets running off of Cas’ arms. Dean leaned away from the end of the weapon, his eyes flickering from Cas’ face to Sam, who was slowly walking up Cas’ other side, his face looking shocked, mouth open and eyes wide.

“Cas?” Sam breathed, his eyes doing a complete sweep of his possessed friend, from the gore along his forearms to the bloodsoaked henley and jeans. His eyes flickered back up to Cas’ face, taking in the blood around his mouth, dripping down his chin. He surveyed the scratches down his temple and the bruise across his nose from the night before. His stare finally rested on Cas’ eyes, white and dangerous, as they met his hazel ones with a sharp jerk of Cas’ face.

Sam swallowed hard, eyes flicking to Dean, as they both tried to cautiously step forward. The thing in Cas turned his head from one slowly approaching Winchester to the other, a low rumble sounding in its throat.

“Cas,” Sam repeated gently, “control it. I know you’re in there. Fight it, Cas.”

“Yeah, _fight it, Cas_ ,” the thing mocked, twisting Castiel’s lips into a horrible, snide smirk. Despite its careless mockery, the thing stepped back and away from the hunters who were trying to trap him in between the tables.

It turned his head towards Dean, eyes flashing dangerously.

“What do you think you’re going to be able to do when you trap me, Dean? I will rip your heart out with my bare hands,” it hissed, “and I’ll let Castiel take the reins just as the life leaves your body. Imagine how Castiel will feel as your blood gushes from between his fingers.”

Dean heart pounded, his stomach dropping. Sorrow and pain pushed aside his fear for a moment, knowing how broken Castiel would be if Dean died at his hand.

But Dean snarled in response, “Cas wouldn’t let you do that.”

“Cas said yes to me, you fucking idiot,” the thing growled, weapon drawn and pointed right at Dean’s heart. Despite wanting to be intimidating and brave, Dean walked backwards again, away from the point of the letter opener. He was no use to Cas dead.

He cursed himself as he backed up against a pillar, meaning the thing was free from between the tables. Despite its freedom, it didn’t run. It slowly stepped towards Dean, stepping on Cas’ blood, its boots—Dean’s old combat boots that he’d lent Cas—squelching through it.

“Castiel let me in. He begged me, pleaded like a whore; ‘ _yes, yes, do it_ ’—” Dean’s mouth twisted as he bared his teeth, bowing his head as he felt himself grow hot. The thing used Cas’ voice, his real voice, making it sound wrecked and desperate. With a small chuckle, it revealed, “He begged me to be inside of him.”

“You’re a liar,” Dean spat, pulling his head up and staring defiantly at Cas.

The point of the tiny blade pressed into his chest.

“Dean!” Sam cried and began to run forward, but Dean held up a hand to stop him.

The smell of cool earth and mud flooded his nostrils as the thing leaned in, its gaze hungry as its white eyes seemed to scan Dean’s features.

“Castiel said yes to me, Dean. He wanted me to fix the emptiness inside him, to fill every corner of his mind with my own.” The thing ran a hand over Cas’s chest. “He wanted this, Dean.”

“You tricked him,” Dean argued, voice low, lip curling. “I just know it.”

“So what?” the thing hissed, Cas’s features twisted into a snarl. “I gave him everything he wanted. Purpose, direction. I gave him everything you didn’t. I filled his mind with the voices of angels, I gave him solutions to his problems with Heaven, a method to open the gates and exact his revenge on Metatron.” The demon inhaled, the sound echoing in his throat. Its lips spread crookedly, flashing his incisors in a malicious smile. “I gave him _you_. I wore your face and touched him like he wanted to be touched, told him things he wanted to be told.”

Dean’s chest rose and fell quickly, his breaths shallow though he tried his best to control them. Dread settled in his chest, denial fresh on his tongue, but he bit it back, knowing any denial about him and Cas was pointless at this point.

Instead, he choked out, “ _You_ … You were the angels. You lied to him.”

The chilling smile spread across the thing’s face. Dean watched the crows feet around Cas’ eyes deepen and felt sick at the corruption twisted in Cas’ smile.

“Yes,” the thing chuckled darkly, “I lied to him about almost everything. But not about you, did I, Dean?”

It licked Cas’ dry lips and its face went soft, almost kind. It put a bloody hand on Dean’s chest and to Dean’s horror, his own voice came out of its mouth; _“You listen to me, not the voices. I’m real, they’re not.”_

Dean felt his knees go weak and his breath hitched. He opened his mouth to say something—anything so that he wouldn’t lose his mind, but Cas was suddenly tackled to the floor, swept sideways, away from Dean. The divot in Dean’s chest where the blade had been pressed suddenly was painful as it pulled out.

Dean pushed away from the pillar as Sam wrestled with Cas on the floor. Dean grabbed the book, shut it, and threw it at Kevin, who caught it easily and turned on his heel, running away towards the iron staircase in the war room.

Sam and Cas rolled around on the ground, Sam’s large hands trying to pry the weapon out of Cas’ bloody ones. The thing swung its fist into the side of Sam’s head as Sam used both hands to hold down his knifed hand, failing to physically pry Cas’s fingers away from around the handle.

Dean surged forward, sliding on his knees, grasping Cas’ fist before it made contact with Sam’s temple again.

The thing, now with its hands pinned down on either side of Cas’ head and Sam straddling it to hold it down, arched up and released a horrible, violent roar. The lights flickered and books flew from the shelves, the lamps on the library tables exploding with ear piercing shatters.

“GET OFF OF ME! THE MARKING WILL BE COMPLETE!” it shrieked, and with a show of super-human strength, it bucked Sam off, throwing him aside. Sam cried out as his body slid across the floor and crashed into the base of a bookshelf.

It turned to Dean freakishly fast and grinned. Before Dean could stop it, the thing brought down the letter opener and slashed across a symbol on Cas’ wrist.

The symbols glowed white, and red smoke curled up from the broken cuts in his skin. Dean yelped as the symbol under his hand grew hot and he yanked his hand away, cradling it to his chest. He hissed as his skin burned and bubbled.

Now free, Cas’ body slowly rose from the floor like he was being pulled up by an invisible force, his head lolling back at his shoulders. His eyes glowed and red smoke rose up from past his lips. Dean and Sam watched in horror as Cas’ feet slipped off the floor and were lifted into the air. His palms turned out, arms straight, fingers spread, blood pouring down his arms and onto the hardwood.

“No,” Dean breathed brokenly, watching Cas come to a stop, levitating in the air.

Cas’ pulled his head up, his white eyes trained blindly in front of him. Around the smoke curling from his mouth, the voice rang out dull and lifeless, echoing around the room.

“The ritual is complete. The vessel has been found. The Taker of Souls will walk the earth. _Plapli. Aabco. Torzv._ ”

Sam’s hands were pulling Dean up from the floor. Dean struggled away, Cas’ name falling from his lips repeatedly, trying to move towards him, but Sam’s arm wrapped around his waist and hauled him up to his feet.

“We gotta go,” Sam insisted, his voice rushed, his tone frightened. “Dean, we gotta go, we gotta leave—”

Cas was dropped to the ground abruptly, landing hard on his knees. The thing began to laugh —a hysterical, desperate laugh. Its bloody hands came up to his mouth, fingers running over his lips and face. Cas’ shoulders shook. The glow from the sigils and his eyes faded.

Dean watched in horror while Sam yanked him back, dragging him away. He fought harder against Sam when the laugh turned to horrible gasps and blue eyes looked up at him for a moment—just a moment—full of terror. Tears tumbled down Cas’ cheeks, cutting through drying and fresh blood.

Then the maniacal laughter bubbled out of frightened wheezes and overpowered Cas. Blue eyes rolled back and white ones appeared after the thick, wet lashes fluttered violently.

“ _Castiel!_ ” Dean screamed, but it was too late—the blue eyes were gone.

Dean and Sam stumbled down the stairs just as the thing’s hair-raising, insidious voice reverberated through the library, causing the lights to flicker. It was flat, dull, and bone-chilling.

“ _You are all going to die tonight._ ”

Looking over his shoulder, Cas’ face slack face was the last thing Dean saw before the lights went out and they were thrown into darkness.

Dean, Sam, and Kevin sprinted down the hallways, eyes adjusting to the spinning red lights from the backup generators. They had been thrown into lockdown—whether the bunker detected dangerous levels of black magic or whether the monster had voluntarily set off the lockdown was unknown to them.

They just knew they had to run.

“Where are we going?” Kevin panted as they all twisted around a corner, zooming past the bedrooms. “We have to get out of here!”

“We can’t leave Cas,” Dean interjected. He looked over his shoulder to check if they were being followed. Before he could go careening into a wall because he wasn’t looking ahead, Sam yanked him around another bend and through a door.

The three boys burst through the door to the garage and stumbled down the steps. Kevin began running towards the Impala.

“No, Kevin!” Sam barked firmly. He ran towards a door in the corner, jerking his head towards it. “Armoury. We need weapons.”

Kevin looked distraught, looking between Sam, the Impala and the door back into the bunker. His voice high, he whispered frantically, “But… we gotta go! He’s gonna kill us!”

Dean pushed open the door to the armoury and waved Kevin in after Sam rushed past him. “Kevin! What part of lockdown do you not understand!? That door won’t open. We’re sealed in here.”

Casting one last longing glance at the garage door, Kevin growled and ran past Dean into the weapons room. Dean shut the door behind him with a slam.

Red lights spun around the room, flashing over racks displaying all manner of blades—knives, swords, axes, and machetes. More modern weapons were also housed in this room, such a row of tasers charging on steel tables. Rows of guns were mounted on the walls, large and small, many of them ancient, belonging to the Men of Letters, while some were Dean and Sam’s personal additions.

Dean turned and looked around the room, noting the alternate exit door to the service hallway and shelving units on either side of him. They needed to secure the room.

“Sam, help me!” Dean called out.

Sam rushed forward and helped Dean push a shelving unit in front of the main door. Once the large metal shelves blocked them into the room, the brothers turned around and began rummaging through cabinets and wrenching open drawers in their search for ammunition.

“You okay, Sam?” Dean asked in a bark, glancing at his brother, who trudged across the room, pressing his fingers to his temple gingerly. “Cas really wailed on you.”

“I’m fine,” Sam responded, lifting his fingers away from his skin, rubbing a small amount of blood between his fingers. “It’s nothing. How’s that burn on your hand?”

With a quick glance down at the angry red blisters on his palm, Dean shuddered and replied gruffly, “Looks gross, but it’s okay.”

He paced over to the other door in the corner of the room, testing the lock. It was sticky, but after a momentary struggle, he locked it, and pulled a heavy little table over to block it.

Meanwhile, Sam was pushing ammo into a sawed-off shotgun. Once it was loaded, he set it on the shelf in front of the door, turning to ready up more weapons.

Kevin watched them, clinging to the book, his eyes wide. “What the hell?! What the hell is going on? What happened to Cas?”

Dean’s pale face turned to him as he sheathed a long silver knife and set it down on a table, starting a pile of weapons. “Please, Kevin. I can’t handle your shit about Cas right now.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Kevin gulped. Dean paused in his pursuit of ammo for his gun, noticing Kevin’s sincerely tone. “I’m really sorry about Cas. I know you, uh, I mean, I thought… Cas is gone, isn’t he?”

Quickly, with a rough tone, Dean said, “Cas is not gone.”

He quickly looked away, shaking his head. He pushed down the crippling anxiety as it tried to rise up in his stomach—he had other things to focus on, as much as his mind wanted to dwell on the pain and shame brought on by Kevin’s sympathy. Additionally, he ignored the panic he felt, knowing that Kevin knew how he felt about Cas. Priorities, he reminded himself. Besides, what did he care now if Kevin knew—if other people knew how he felt about Cas. It had probably been obvious to everyone but him. No point feeling shame...

After loading his gun, Dean slammed the ammo box closed and ducked down, opening drawers in pursuit of another melee weapon.

“That thing… it was cutting him,” Kevin ranted on, fingers digging at the edges of the book. “He was bleeding everywhere. His arms… God, it was so much blood.”

The book was plucked from Kevin’s arms and tossed onto a stainless steel table by Sam, who then handed Kevin a large, wide blade.

“We know, Kev.” Sam swallowed hard, looking like he was trying to forget the image of Cas’s skin torn and bloody. “Here’s your weapon.”

Kevin looked down at the weapon in his hand, jaw-dropping. “You gave me a machete?! Dude, I want a gun.”

Sam pursed his lips, fixing Kevin with premium bitch-face. “Kevin, I do not trust you with a gun right now. ‘Cause no offense, even on a good day, you’re a crappy shot.” He gestured to the giant knife in his hand. “This is easy. Hold onto the handle and swing.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the steel glimmer in the sharp red lighting. He found a small knife and tucked it into his boot.

“Don’t go swinging all willy-nilly,” he commanded roughly. “Weapons are a last resort.”

Kevin gaped at him, and even Sam frowned, looking confused. “Dean, we have to defend ourselves.”

“Guys, he’s _possessed_ ,” Dean snapped back, rising to his feet and looking desperately between them. “If we hurt that thing, we hurt Cas. He’s not just some meatsuit, he’s my, he’s—he’s our friend.”

Sam’s face softened. Kevin still looked unconvinced.

“Well, how else do we deal with Murder McGee out there then?” Kevin flailed at the door with his machete. Sam and Dean jerked back from the weapon as it was swung too closely to their faces.

“Whoa!” Sam yelped. “Why am I regretting giving that to you?”

“Sorry.”

“No one hurts Cas!” Dean growled, jumping back on topic.

“Dean,” Sam whispered furiously, holding his hands out in a placating manner, “you’re not thinking straight. No one _wants_ to hurt him, but we need to defend ourselves if it comes down to it.”

“What happens when we get the thing out of him, huh?” Dean hissed in return, jabbing his finger at the exit door. “Are you gonna force me to watch him die on the bunker floor because Kevin got stabby?”

Sam stepped towards Dean and put a comforting hand on his arm, his face etched in understanding. “Don’t misunderstand me, Dean. We’re not suiting up for an attack. I promise.”

Sam looked at Kevin and gestured to the machete. “Flesh wounds only, okay, Kevin? We’re only on the defense. I’m serious. It’s Cas. Family. ‘Annoying and weird’ Cas, messes up your notes, hogs all the hot water in the shower Cas, remember?”

Kevin exhaled slowly through his mouth and the edge began disappearing from his glare. “I know,” he conceded, giving his shoulders a shake. Then he admitted quietly, “I’m just scared, that’s all. I’m freaking out a bit. It’s not every day you get thrown into a real-life horror movie.”

“I know, Kev.”

“Story of our lives,” Dean grumbled, rubbing at his face and stepping out of Sam’s grasp.

“Okay,” Sam nodded. “Let us handle the defense then, okay? You use that thing as a last resort.”

“Last resort,” Kevin repeated, nodding. “So like, if he tries to kill me.”

Dean groaned. “All he’s trying to do is kill us, Kevin. _”_

Kevin leaned against a shelf, looking stressed. “Oh, man. I really don’t want to have to kill Cas.”

“No one is killing Cas!” Dean repeated, his voice high.

Sam stepped between them, raising his palms. He looked completely done with them. With a controlled voice, one that had a touch of frustration tinging its edges, Sam asked, “Okay, what’s the plan, guys?”

Dean rubbed at his forehead, feeling a headache building quickly behind his eyes and down his neck. “Uh, okay. We gotta get this book to Crowley. He’s the only one left in the bunker who can read it.”

“Maybe he’ll know what this creature is,” Sam agreed, his eyes darting over to the red flashing light in the corner. “We also need to get to the electrical room to reverse the lockdown.”

“Is that such a good idea?” Dean asked, shuffling his feet. “I mean, if we can get out, so can Cas. And, uh,” Dean looked down at the dried blood on his hands, “he isn’t so good out in public right now.”

“Shit. You’re right.” Sam said as he walked over to a sink in the corner and grabbed a rag off the faucet. The handle squeaked and a burst of water exploded from the end, though the stream fizzled out to nothing almost instantly.

“Crap,” Sam huffed. “No water. Forgot about that.”

He walked over to Dean and handed him the towel even though it was mostly dry. Dean grumbled thanks and scrubbed at his hands.

“Let’s stick close together,” Sam lectured. “Be really quiet, and try to get to the dungeon level without him hearing or finding us. We hide before we fight, okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, shooting Kevin a pointed look. “Hide first, get stabby later.”

“Let’s move through level D, then we’ll go up through—”

They didn’t get a chance to finish discussing their route. A strong, startling bang against the door had each man draw and grip their weapons, swinging them towards the source of the pounding. Sam slammed a clip into his gun and pointed it at the shelving behind the door as it shuddered.

 _Bang_.

Metal boxes with ammo shook off the shelving and crashed onto the floor. The three men held their breath and backed away from the door slowly, going deeper into the wide room.

The thing was trying to get inside.

“So hide first, attack later, right? So, uh, what do we do when he’s found where we’re hiding?!” Kevin asked in a rushed whisper, twisting the handle of the machete between two hands.

“Stay behind us!” Dean whispered, pushing Kevin behind him. He shot him a look when Kevin jumped at another loud bang, the machete shaking in his grasp. “And watch where you point that thing—”

_BANG._

With gasps and cries of alarm, Dean, Sam, and Kevin stumbled back as the heavy metal shelving tipped back and crashed against the ground, boxes of bullets busting open, ammunition rolling across the cement floor.

“Oh my god, we’re gonna _die_!” Kevin yelped frantically.

“Come on, Kevin. Be brave,” Dean ordered.

 _BANG!_ The sound accompanied a violent convex dent in the door as the thing pounded at it.

“I’m pointing a giant knife at a blood-thirsty-psycho-maniac-demon-monster thing, okay?” Kevin groused. ”I’m being brave!”

 _BANG._ Another dent.

“It’s gonna break through,” Sam announced, kicking off the safety on his gun. “Change of plans; Kevin, you run through the back door there, follow the service hallway all the way to 7B. Hide there with Crowley until we come get you.”

“What about you?”

Dean and Sam exchanged looks. Dean responded this time, gravely. “We’ll hold him off.”

“I could stay. I… can help,” Kevin countered, but he sounded terrified.

BANG.

In sync, Dean and Sam yelled; “ _Go, Kevin!_ ”

They barely had time to look back at the door before it burst off its hinges. They watched in horror as Cas, with a wicked expression of triumph, yanked the steel door off the last hinge with two hands and threw it back over his shoulder. The door smashed into the old Chieftain, shattering the windshield with an ear-splitting crash.

“Run, Kevin!” Sam and Dean yelled again as Cas stepped into the fallen shelving, looking around the room with a sinister glee.

“I understand now why you boys were locked up in here for so long,” Cas said in awe. “Look at all these fun toys.”

Completely unbothered by the two handguns being pointed at him, Cas leaned down and picked up the sawed-off shotgun Sam had loaded, now hazardously lying in a pile of fallen items. Sam and Dean held their breath as the thing stared at the gun, turning it in its hands. Then it slowly looked up at Dean. With a lofty grip on the handle, its finger curled around the trigger and it aimed the barrel of the gun at Dean’s chest.

“Sam, is that—” Dean was going to ask if it was loaded, but Sam read his mind.

“Yeah, Dean. It is.”

“Cas,” Dean warned, his finger hovering over the trigger of his handgun. He knew if they fired at the same time, he’d be a goner while Cas might potentially not even flinch. Dean felt sweat tumble down his neck. “Cas, put the gun down.”

“You are an annoying little insect,” the thing sneered. The expression was wrong on Cas’ otherwise handsome face; it was ugly. It didn’t belong there. “I should exterminate you first, but…” To Dean’s horror, he twisted his torso just a fraction, turning the sawed-off on Sam. “I imagine there would be some tears if Sammy’s brain was to paint these walls, and Dean, you’re so pretty when you cry.”

The thing stepped over another shelf, approaching Sam with a predatory tilt of its head.

Dean’s breath picked up. “Cas, please don’t—”

“Cas, you don’t wanna do this,” Sam pleaded.

Dean saw Sam’s finger move to squeeze the trigger and a quick glance towards Cas revealed that he was doing the same.

“No!” Dean yelled, grabbing Sam’s gun, pushing it up towards the ceiling. He also yanked Sam out of the way as the shotgun in Cas’ hand went off with a blast. They stumbled back, out of the line of fire.

Sam’s bullet ricocheted off a metal shelf and exploded a red light bulb against the wall. Dean and Sam went crashing back onto the floor, a tangle of limbs. They cried out as their ears rung from the close proximity shots.

Dean felt a heavy, dull pain as Sam landed hard on his chest, pushing all the air out of his lungs. Wheezing and pressing a hand to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to breathe. He heard a choked, wet gurgling sound and forced himself to sit up, horrified that he hadn’t acted quickly enough, that Sam was dying.

But Sam was fine—his face was speckled with some blood but he was otherwise unscathed except for his eyes that were wide and shining, his mouth gaping. Dean’s head turned quickly, following his gaze. In an instant, Dean’s heart broke and his blood ran cold.

Blood poured from Kevin’s mouth down to the floor. He reached up for his chest—blasted open and shredded—with a shaking hand. The machete dropped to the ground with a clang and Kevin’s knees gave out. His body fell sideways. The wet, choked gurgling quietly lessened.

A low, slow chuckle rumbled in Cas’ throat as he prowled closer to Kevin. The shotgun swung lazily at Cas’ side as he kneeled beside Kevin, bloody fingers wrapping around handle of the blade as he picked the machete off the floor.

The dying boy reached up with surprising strength and grasped at Cas. His twitching fingers gripped the blood-soaked sleeves of Cas’ shirt. Bubbling, foamy blood slowly oozed down the side of Kevin’s face from his lips and his throat convulsed around gasps.

The thing in Cas laughed again, low and echoing.

“Four,” it growled simply.

And then coldly, the thing in Cas drove the tip of the machete straight through Kevin’s heart, ending the prophet's life. With one last damp wheeze, Kevin’s hands dropped to the floor and he was still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're all going to die tonight" was another quote that I couldn't resist borrowing from the movie. It was horrible, spine-chilling, and perfectly spooky! Just imagining Cas saying that, all evil and possessed... *shudder*. So hot.
> 
> Uh, I mean scary. xD
> 
> Y'all, didn't jdragon122 do an _amazing_ job!? This art is seriously mind-blowing and I love it so much. Please give her love in the comments or jump over to her masterpost (https://jdragon122.tumblr.com/post/178878815880/art-for-dcbb-2018-taker-of-souls-by) and leave her all the love.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember Run From Me by Timbre Timbre? It makes another appearance in this chapter. ;) Here's the link if you'd like to listen at the same time: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbity554pSg

Ears still ringing, Sam and Dean stared wide-eyed at Kevin’s body as it lay still on the cold armoury floor. Blood slowly pooled out around his torso and crept across the floor towards them.

“Kevin,” Sam breathed brokenly. “We told him to leave…”

The whisper attracted Cas’ attention. With grotesque cracking sounds, the thing turned its head away from Kevin, looking at Sam over its shoulder, licking the blood from the side of the machete with a long lap of its tongue.

“Leave?”

Its head tilted. The resemblance to Cas’ signature head tilt made Dean’s stomach turn.

“You think any of you can _leave_? Don’t you understand, boys?” The thing rose to its feet, the bloody machete swinging down to its side. “Wherever you hide, I will find you. Wherever you run, I will follow. No one is leaving this bunker tonight.”

“Shut _up!_ ’ Sam struggled to his feet, stumbling back against a table. He pointed his gun at Cas again.

“Sam, don’t.”

The weak words came forced between Dean’s teeth, though this time they were hard to say with conviction as he stared past Cas to Kevin’s body. The boy’s eyes were empty and lifeless as they stared up at the ceiling, the last of the crimson foam sliding down his face.

“Kevin,” Dean whispered, the familiar ache of grief making his chest feel hollow and empty.

“He’s dead,” Cas bragged. He raised the sawed-off once more, pointing it at Sam, feet stepping through blood. He prowled closer, closing the gap between them. “And Sam will be dead too, Dean. Pay close attention. Once I blow his chest into a gaping, festering cavity—” the end of the barrel pressed into Sam’s chest—“you may actually be able to see the last few beats of his heart.”

Blood-caked fingers curled around the trigger of the shotgun and tugged.

The scream bubbling in Dean’s throat died before it ever made it out.

_Click._

Nothing happened. No blast. No horrific gurgling in Sam’s throat. He didn’t fall to his knees and his chest remained intact. His heart remained beating.

Cas frowned. His fingers tugged at the trigger again.

_Click._

Perhaps Dean was just too numb from grief, too despaired with watching his Cas dissolve away into this monster, because he barely realised Sam’s hand was fiddling behind his back while Cas was distracted, grasping at a wire hanging over the table. He tugged at the wire of the taser charging dock, in attempt to drag one of the weapons closer.

Quicker than Dean could even process, Sam swung his elbow around, knocking the empty shotgun out of Cas’ hand. It went flying across the room and knocked a neat arrangement of knives all over the floor.

The crashing sound jogged Dean out of his funk and he leapt into action, noticing the tazers now just inches from the edge of the table. He yanked one of them out of the dock.

With a flourish, the machete twirled in the monster’s hand, mockingly reminiscent of the way Cas usually flipped his angel blades, the point of it now angled downwards towards Sam’s heart. Dean had always found the move to be undeniably badass and sexy, but now it instilled only terror.

However, the steel didn’t get a chance to pierce Sam’s flesh, because as soon as the taser was activated in Dean’s hand, he pointed towards Cas. It erupted forward, fastening itself to his middle.

The monster gasped and collapsed onto its knees, convulsing and gasping desperately as high voltage electricity was pumped into his muscles through the barbed metal prongs

“Go! Go!’ Dean yelled at Sam, who ducked around Cas as he fell to his side, eyes rolling back, breathing hoarsely through the pain.

Crashes and commotion sounded from behind Dean as Sam grabbed the book from a table and staggered over the fallen shelving, over boxes of ammo and discarded weapons, rushing towards the door.

Dean released the trigger of the taser, not wanting to cause permanent damage to Cas’ body. The taser was thrown across the room.

Dean turned to run, casting one last glance at Cas, who was lying on his side on the floor, trembling and panting, struggling to get up, his hands sliding in blood.

A ridiculous, irrational part of him wanted to turn back and help him, but he knew the chances were slim that the real Cas was awake and present. Dean turned around and ran, following Sam out into the garage. Their footsteps echoed loudly across the concrete as they sprinted across the room and rushed up the stairs, back into the bunker.

The brothers leaned against the door after they slammed it behind them, panting furiously, both crowding the small glass window into the garage, watching the armoury door to ensure they weren’t being followed.

Seconds passed and there was no sign of Cas emerging from the room.

“We have to bring the book to Crowley,” Dean whispered roughly, locking the door with a snap of his wrist. It wouldn’t hold Cas off for long, but it bought them some time. “We gotta find out how to kill this thing without killing Cas.”

With a shaky jerk of Sam’s head, he flipped hair from his face and nodded, eyes still trained on the armoury door. “I need to get the syringe from my room.”

“Sam, do you really think we need that—”

“Dean,” Sam’s head snapped towards his brother, sweat shining on his forehead, “we can’t risk that he won’t help us. I’m going to get the syringe. Take the book to Crowley, I’ll meet you there.”

“What if you run into Cas?” Dean cast a worried glance back out into the garage, eyes glistening as he stared at the door of Kevin’s tomb.

Sam pushed hair from his face with a shaking hand. His throat worked frantically for a moment, looking for answers to the question in the spinning red lights behind Dean.

“How did you get Cas here from the auto glass place?”

“I-I knocked him out. Handcuffed him to the seat.”

Sam’s eyes flickered to Dean’s face, eyes a bit wide. “And you were able to taze him.”

“Where are you going with this?” Dean growled, unsure why they were wasting time hanging out by the door when Cas was due to follow them at any time now. Again, he stared back through the glass, watching the armoury door nervously.

“Dean,” Sam kicked the safety of his gun off with the heel of his hand, pulling Dean’s attention back to him, “this means Cas’s body is still reactive like a human. He might be getting stronger but he’s still affected by stuff like blunt force and electrocution.” Sam turned on his heel and began striding down the hall, his feet moving quickly, blood-slick shoes squeaking across the floor. ”I have to go to the infirmary. I have an idea on how we can subdue him.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean followed him, eyes shooting back over his shoulder to the door. “Dude, you can’t be running around this place. Don’t you get it—we’re being _hunted_. We gotta expedite the process here, and we gotta be stealthy while we’re doing it—”

A twitch developed in Sam’s jaw as he held back a retort. It didn’t last long though because he interrupted Dean, “Dean, I said I have an idea on how to subdue him. We don’t need to hide if we can find a way to control him.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue but Sam made a noise of frustration in his throat and began walking away.

“Stop!” Dean yelled after him.

Sam spun around.

Dean pointed to the floor. “Take off your shoes at least.”

“What?” Sam stopped in his tracks, confused.

“Your shoes, Sam,” Dean whispered roughly, pointing behind them at the gruesome, bloody tracks they left behind. “You’re leaving a trail of crumbs for him.”

Boots thudded loudly to the floor as Sam yanked them off and threw them aside. “Right… you’re right. What about yours? Take ‘em off.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re not the only one with a plan.”

“You gonna tell me—”

“Sam, we don’t have time. Go. Do what you gotta do, but hurry,” Dean urged him. “I’ll meet you in the dungeon in five minutes. If you’re not down there in eight, I’ll come find you. Be safe.”

Five minutes. Dean had five minutes to confuse that _thing_.

Running quickly through the maze of hallways, hoping and praying that he wouldn’t run into Cas, Dean trailed bloody footsteps everywhere, and when the trail got faint, he threw on Sam’s shoes, continuing his deception. He went in circles and walked into random rooms, down random stairs, and turned in random directions, skidding and slipping in his haste.

By some miracle, he didn’t run into Cas… until he checked his phone to see that his five minutes were almost up. Dean toed off Sam’s shoes and slipped on his boots, tossing his brother’s pair into a storage closet. Dean closed the door and turned to head towards the basement stairs.

At the end of the long hallway, in the distance, stood Cas. The head of messy brown hair was tilted slightly to the side, white eyes locked on Dean. The machete swung lightly at his side, almost playfully. Almost challengingly.

Dean inhaled sharply and actually stepped back, alarmed. Well, fuck. There went his plan to throw that thing off their trail. At least Sam was somewhere else and safe.

“Cas,” Dean greeted in a growl.

The thing began walking towards him, its pace lazy and jaunty. “Dean.”

“Stay back,” Dean warned, his voice low. He didn’t know why he bothered saying that, as if the thing was going to just _listen_ to him. With careful steps backward, he slowly pulled his gun out of his jeans, though he didn’t point it at Cas just yet.

The machete was spun in the air and caught by the handle, Cas’ white gaze never leaving Dean’s face. The tongue of Dean’s old combat boots flopped up and down as Cas’ casual gait squelched over bloody footprints, leaving his own in his tracks.

“Or what?” it taunted, Cas’ voice cocooned in dark reverb and the hint of a growl. “You gonna shoot me with that thing?”

Nervous green eyes darted down to the gun held half-heartedly in his hand. He looked back up, swallowing hard.

“I thought so,” it chuckled. Dry, cracked, blood splattered lips twisted into a crooked little pursed smile. “Wouldn’t want to hurt Cassie’s sweet, innocent meatsuit. It’s your _favourite_.”

With every step it took forward, Dean took one back. A second hand joined his first on the handle of the gun and he finally dared point it up at Cas, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips in what he hoped was a defiant glare.

Pushed through his teeth, Dean rumbled, “I’ll do what I have to do.”

In response, the thing in Castiel released a booming bark of laughter. “You lying little slug! I can sense your fear for him, I can hear your heart breaking with every second you have to watch this body belong to someone other than your fuck-boy angel.” It bared its teeth at him. “You would never shoot me. Not when he’s still in here with me.”

The thing dragged Cas’ tongue over his teeth nefariously and flipped the blade in its hand, suddenly proceeding forward with purpose.

The finger hovering over the trigger of Dean’s handgun squeezed back in an impulsive motion.

Cas threw himself aside, rolling around the corner of an adjacent hallway to dodge the bullet that nearly embedded itself in his shoulder.

The second the light from the blast cleared and Cas disappeared around the wall, Dean turned sharply on his heel and ran. His feet pounded down against hard flooring, his breath coming out in abrupt pants.

“Yes, run!” it called after him.

His neck cracked as he turned his head, looking back at Cas, watching him take quick strides towards him, dragging the machete across the wall as he pursued him, the metal making a screeching noise against the black and grey bricks. “ _Run_. I love a good hunt.”

Fear dropped heavily into Dean’s stomach as he turned a corner blindly and realised it was a dead end. The hallway was short and boasted only a few random rooms and a doorway to the maintenance closet at the end. He swallowed hard, eyes darting to either side of him, reading the signs on the doors.

Heavy, predatory footsteps and the shrill scratching of metal against rough brick drew terrifyingly close. As the noise drew too close, Dean’s stomach turned as he realised Cas was singing, lightly under his breath.

 _“Run, from me, darlin’. Run, my good wife,”_ Cas sang airily. _“Run from me, darlin’... You better run... for your life.”_

Panic set in, head turning from side to side as he struggled to decide his route. Dean’s frantic eyes darted to the doors lining either side of the hall. In a split decision encouraged by Cas’ low rumbling tune just moments from occupying the same small hallway, Dean threw himself against a random door.

He stumbled into the boiler room, slamming the door shut behind him and crossing the room in a quick jog. He hoisted himself down a ladder into the floor below, falling down into their electrical room as his foot missed the last step.

A series of expletives poured from his lips as he fell on his ass and elbows. Groaning, he got to his feet and rubbed at his funny bone. However the second of tending to his bruises was made brief when the door to the boiler room audibly opened above him.

“ _Run from me, baby’... Run, my good wife. Run from me, baby_ —” the sinister song purred under Cas’ breath in the room above—” _you better run, for your life.”_

“Fuck,” Dean huffed, stumbling towards the door out of the room. The fleeting thought of turning off the lockdown lever was thrown to the wind as the machete was thrown down into the room, piercing the cement floor, its handle flapping from side to side with a twang. A quick glance up the ladder revealed bloody combat boots and jeans descending the ladder.

Dean didn’t wait to watch Cas finish his descent down into the room. He swept out the door and ran for it.

He made his way through the basement level and heaved himself up the set of stairs, back up to the main level. To his horror, the footsteps behind him picked up and the singing grew more vindictive and creepy.

“ _Run… run…_ ” the echoing, growl crooned, catching up to Dean. The screech of metal against brick stopped and was replaced with the high pitched smashing of glass.

Dean looked over his shoulder to see the hallways he was moving through get darker; Cas was smashing the red light bulbs with his weapon as he prowled faster after Dean, casting entire hallways into pitch black.

“ _Run… run… run...”_

Muscles in his legs cramped and burned as Dean pushed them harder, hoping he was outrunning Cas. With a sharp pivot around a corner, Dean impulsively yanked himself into the nearest doors.

He found himself in the communal bathrooms, the same one from last night. One of the sinks were still full of mud, a grotesque reminder of Cas’ rescue, of warning signs that prophesied the rise of that _thing_.

Painfully, Dean remembered Cas expelling the mud from his mouth, choking on the blood, trying to warn Dean;

“ _I want it out. It hurts… Something is happening to me. Something is inside of me._ ”

Swallowing his grief, Dean swept past the sinks towards tall, wide lockers. They were a row of four. He kicked off his shoes that were leaving a trail behind him, and tossed them aside. He needed to be stealthy because he’d made a wrong move - the only exit to this room was the door he’d just entered from, but Cas was close on his tail. He couldn’t turn back. He had to hide.

The hiding places were limited in the bathroom. There was another conjoined room of more showers and sinks, more benches and lockers. There was an old-school wooden sauna across that other room, but Dean didn’t have time to explore any of those possibilities. He could hear the smashing of lightbulbs getting louder and louder behind him, just outside the doors to the bathroom.

Quickly, Dean jogged through the room and swung himself into a locker, closing it quietly behind him. His arms were squished tightly against the cold metal and his breathing was loud in the tight, confined dark space. He raised a hand and pressed it against his mouth, stifling his shaking inhales and exhales. He hoped that it was enough, that this evil entity didn’t have super-human hearing to detect his muffled panting over the hum of backup generators.

Despite the cool, stale air inside the locker, sweat crawled down his spine as he heard the door open and those heavy feet meander through the bathroom, the sounds echoing against the tile.

Ridiculously, Dean felt like he was starring in a horror movie, cast as the main teenage girl who got herself cornered in a closet, holding her breath as she watched the serial killer creeping around through slits in the closet door. He vowed to himself that he’d never make fun of that character ever again.

“Oh, so the righteous one, the legendary Dean Winchester is _hiding_ now?” the twisted version of Cas’ voice mocked to no one.

Dean peered through the grates in the locker and saw Cas standing at the end of the benches, near the door, just where Dean had patched Cas up yesterday. The tip of the machete was in the wooden bench and Cas’ long fingers spun the handle, smirking around the bathroom. “Running _and_ hiding? This is my exact brand of foreplay, Dean. You tease.”

There was a pointed _thunk_ as he yanked the blade out of the wooden bench and stepped past the sinks, tapping the steel against each porcelain basin. Dean lost sight of him as he moved closer towards the end of the room, so he leaned back, focusing on exhaling slowly and as silently as he could manage.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” the monster murmured. “Where could you be? In the sink? No. Not in the sink.” The thing laughed to itself, walking into Dean’s field of vision for a moment as it paced past the showers. “Hmmm. Not in the showers either, which is a surprise. I’d think you would love another chance to be alone with Castiel’s body in the shower. Should I take his clothes off? Would that draw you out?”

Dean’s stomach twisted into knots.

Cas dragged his machete along the bench again, leaving stuttered grooves as the tip skidded over the boards.

Dean lost sight of him again.

“Maybe I should stand under the water and let the blood run off of him, just like last night. Maybe that’ll set the mood.”

Dean’s fingers dug into his face to muffle the sharp inhale of surprise as Cas swung back and ran his blade through the door of the first locker.

“Maybe it’ll get you remembering how it felt to be in Castiel’s arms. We could do it again now, Dean. Before the real fun begins out there. Except this time, instead of sappy, pathetic shower hugs, we can fuck like dogs against the tile. I’ll even pretend to be _him_.”

The next flimsy locker door shrieked, the ear-piercing screech of metal giving way to the sharp blade. It echoed through the lockers, making Dean's ears feel like they were bleeding. He gritted his teeth hard to stop from reacting, to stay quiet in his hiding place. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard.

As the handle of the blade hit the locker, Cas pushed the blade down hard, creating a horrible, high pitched tearing sound. If Dean had been in that particular locker, he would have been gutted.

He was two lockers away. Dean had to think fast. He had really hoped Cas would enter the bathroom and go searching the other section of the bathroom or the sauna so Dean could run for it. But he was Winchester, so no such luck. He should have known better.

“There’s no point of hiding, Dean. Castiel can smell you. The pathetic fuck gets butterflies in his stomach at the very hint of your cologne. It’s nauseating,” the thing sneered, wrenching the machete free, stepping up to the third locker. “Smells it across the bunker like a bitch in heat.” The thing chuckled, its naturally reverberating voice echoing against the tiled walls. “He’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, blindingly fluttering around you, hoping you want him as much as he wants you.

“I don’t blame him,” it mused darkly, swinging his elbows back and driving the blade into the third locker, setting Dean’s teeth on edge as the noise made his eardrums practically burst. “You are somewhat of a delicious specimen of mud monkey. Once I take my last soul, I’m tempted to _not_ kill you so I can keep you. My whore… I could chain you to the floor by your throat so you’re always on your hands and knees, ready for me.”

Dean’s heart hammered against his chest so hard he was frightened the monster might hear it. His fingers gripped his face hard as his breathing picked up. It wrenched the blade out of the locker, making Dean jump.

“Wouldn’t that be delightful? You would live, Dean. You would have purpose. You would exist to suck my cock and be filled with it. I would fuck you so hard I’d have to rip your throat out to stifle your screams.”

Then, to Dean’s horror, the door of the locker swung open. Cool air rushed in and he lowered his hand from his mouth.

Castiel stood in front of Dean. He was menacing. He was straight out of a nightmare with blood all over him, crimson smears from fingers and violent splitters marring his pale skin. His skin was waxy and veined subtly like his blood vessels strained to contain his evil. Black smudges under Cas’ eyes made him look dead. Red lights flashed across his face, sending Dean back into flashbacks from Hell.

Of course the thing had found him in his hiding place. Clearly it had known where he’d been hiding all along. The thing with the lockers had just been part of its fucked up game.

“I would _never_ let you touch me,” Dean sneered, but the venom dripping off his tongue was diluted as he trembled. Frightened sweat dripped down his face.

“Who said anything about ‘letting’?” it grinned, eyes twinkling in a way that made Dean feel terror-stricken. “It wouldn’t be any fun if you ‘let’ me.”

The tip of the machete was raised to Dean’s face, the tip gently dragged over his cheekbone and down over his jaw. It trailed down his torso and he held his breath, nervous that the smallest rise of his chest would result in the slicing of skin. The thing’s white eyes seemed to follow the trail left by the blade, looking dark and hungry.

“No… it’s more fun when you disgusting cockroaches fight back, when you plead for it to stop.” Its eyes flickered up, Cas’ thick lashes fluttering, his grin deepening the lines around his mouth. “Just like Castiel did. Like he did in the forest last night, sinking into the mud and choking on that filthy water… _oh,_ the begging and screaming for me to stop while I poured myself inside him, curling into every corner of his body? He pleaded to be freed while I held his legs open and fucked him raw, drinking in every last drop of that delectable pure soul. It was delightful.”

Dean hissed in disgust, his throat working hard as he tried to fight down the panic and bile trickling up his throat. Ice replaced the blood in his veins and he had to make himself wider in the locker, shoulders pressed against the sides, trying to take the weight off his weakening legs that begun shaking with despair…the thing couldn’t be telling the truth. It couldn’t be.

The thought that this thing had…had bound and _raped_ Cas. Dean couldn’t process it. His head spun and he felt dizzy, but he tried to keep looking it in the eye defiantly, tried to conceal his anguish and guilt.

He would fucking kill this thing. He would kill it slowly, and he would drink in every second of its agony for what it did to Cas. Finally, a worthy reason to use every torture trick he’d learned in Hell. Maybe all forty years had been worth it for the moment he inevitably would have to cut this monster into hundreds of tiny little pieces.

“He begged for it to stop, pleaded for me to stop hurting him—can you believe that?” It asked, twisting its wrist quickly, using the tip of its blade to unbutton Dean’s jeans. Dean held his breath as the steel dragged his zipper down unbelievably slowly.

“An angel, once a warrior of Heaven, a celestial wavelength of strength and resolve… _broken_ by terror and despair, drained by depression and loneliness, by the loss of purpose,” it breathed, staring at Dean in wonder, its smile creeping wider. “What did you _do_ to this poor angel? What did you say to convince him that humanity was worth all that pain? Dean, look what you’ve done. You did this.” It ran a bloody hand over Cas’ face and chest, fingers limp and dragging.

“I didn’t. I didn’t do this,” Dean choked out, his face twisted mutinously. “Cas made all his own choices.”

“Maybe if you keep saying that, you’ll start believing it yourself one day.” The thing stepped away from Dean. “The very touch of you corrupts, Dean. You _are_ poison. Don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise. You killed Castiel. You killed Kevin. You’ll be the reason your brother dies. Dean, always remember; this was your fault.”

“No—”

Cas’ hand snapped towards Dean and grabbed him by his shirt, wrenching him out of the locker. Dean cried out as his arms scraped the frame of the locker.

“Yes,” it hissed with breath that was cold and earthy. “Every moment of this is your fault. Just think—if you had acted sooner, told him sooner how you felt, been there for him when he was at his loneliest—when he was the most lost—perhaps he would have told you about me earlier. But you didn’t, you were distracted by Sam and the tablets, by Abbadon, by my book, and by locking everyone up here like a prison.”

The thing leaned in closer. Its words were like spit-fire, but its smile was haunting and malicious. “Meanwhile, our Castiel had nothing but his insecurities and fear to hold onto. Everything he’d ever known slipped away through his fingers. No grace, no power, no control. No family, no idea what was going on in Heaven. And every time he tried to get answers, he faced nothing but your temper and denial.

“For all of your attempts to teach him free will, you took it from him, barricading him in these walls,” the machete was swept through the air, gesturing around the room. “And you kept him in the dark, just like the family you convinced him to betray. You are corrupt. Every moment that Castiel fell into mortality can be traced back to you.”

Dean’s hands—one gripping his gun at this side and the other curled around Cas’ wrist—began to shake with rage. He _hated_ this thing. He hated it. Despite wearing Castiel’s body as its vessel, nothing about it was beautiful—its face was ugly and twisted, its white eyes were pure evil. Staring into Castiel’s face made Dean’s insides tangle and slither around with utter revulsion.

Yet, he felt frozen at its words. He knew it could see Castiel’s memories, hear his thoughts… God, was this all true? Had Dean really been so cold as to not see just how deeply Cas had been suffering?

A part of Dean knew it was true. He had a temper. And he hadn’t shown Cas much sympathy about Heaven since the fall. Maybe he could have been more helpful, maybe he could have spent more time with him. Maybe he should have told him that he loved him. That he was in love with him, maybe that he always had been. Maybe it would have made a difference.

Maybe he could have saved him from this.

“And maybe all of it might have been worth it if you’d given him a reason why falling was in his best interest. But not once did you tell him,” the thing said, appearing to read Dean’s next thought, “that you wanted him. Not once did you tell him how you felt.” It leaned in close, so close Dean could feel its breath against his lips. Dean tried to lean back, but it pulled him closer by his shirt. “You had every opportunity to ease his insecurities but you were too worried about what others would think, about how it would change things. Too worried you weren’t worthy—”

“Shut up!” Dean screamed in its face, surging forward. He’d heard enough. Rage bubbled in his veins and tingled under his skin, crawling up from his stomach and curling around his heart. Dean _hated_ this thing. He hated it for the truth it was spitting, he hated it for using Cas’ voice to unearth everything he’d tried to bury.

He and Cas went careering over the bench when the back of Cas’ knees hit it and he fell backward. Both the machete and the gun went skidding across the tiled floor. The men landed in one of the showers, Cas’ head hitting the ground hard with a loud crack.

Dean landed on top of him, and scrambled to overpower the thing with his hands around its wrists and legs on either side of its hips. He didn’t have to work very hard though, because the thing didn’t fight back as he pinned it down. Bile crept up his throat as the thing laughed and laughed and laughed, tears of amusement trickling over crows feet and disappearing back into Cas’ hair.

“I SAID, SHUT UP!” Dean bellowed, shaking him. He almost pulled his hand back to punch that stupid smile off its face, but the way its eyelids fluttered made him pause.

This was Cas. Cas was in there. Dean gave his head a small shake. _That’s Cas face, these are his wrists and you’re hurting him._ _Be careful._

But it was too late. A thin trail of blood from behind Cas’ head crept over the white grout in between the shower tiles, moving towards the drain. Dean swallowed hard, his throat working around the lump that settled in there. The rage, while still present like hell smoke in his chest, very slowly uncurled itself from his heart.

He’d hurt Cas. Fuck, his head was bleeding.

Dean leaned down, close to the thing’s face. With teeth bared and eyes shining furiously, he hissed, “You don’t know me. You don’t know Cas—not really. And you don’t know _us_.”

It grinned, a fucked-up parody of Cas’ easy smile, crooked and lifted at the corner, flashing white teeth. However, its eyes were rolling back, fluttering, like it was clawing to consciousness.

“I can see your heart, Dean,” it breathed airly. “I can see your soul. And I can see it reflected in your eyes.” It swallowed hard and coughed, a small amount of blood specking his lips. “Your heart is consumed by blue eyes and messy hair, by a voice like gravel and a smile created just for you. You can lie to Castiel, you can lie to your brother. You can lie to yourself in the mirror, Dean Winchester, but you can’t lie... to me.”

Blood ran heavier, twisting through the labyrinth in between the tiles, swirling down the drain. Dean must have hit Cas’ head _hard_ against the floor. Dean’s stomach twisted, hoping he hadn’t caused serious damage, but his hands gripped those wrists firmly anyway. The thing looked dizzy, its white skin looking even whiter, but Dean wouldn’t let himself be fooled. It could be a trick.

The thing’s eyelids continued to flutter and thin blood seeped into the dry cracks in Cas’ lips. It swallowed wetly and its lids drooping heavily. “I have you to thank for everything. Without your neglect, without you confusing him, he would not have been so hungry for any form of comfort.” Its voice was weak, but it went on, its lips twitching, curling down around groans and flickering weak smiles. ”I gave him everything he wanted. It was almost too easy. Once I took your form, I barely had to do anything… he seemed to melt into me at the first brush of your fingers across his skin.”

The hands around Cas’ wrist tightened. Dean spat out words like venom, “Shut your fucking mouth or I will shoot you. Maybe not to kill, but I’ll find somewhere I can shoot that will hurt like a bitch.”

The thing ignored him. Through wet swallows, it coughed and grinned, teeth pink with blood. “All I had to do was wear your face, speak with your voice, touch him with your hands, fuck him with your cock—” Dean’s heart sank, “to make him open and willing to consent. It’s a shame you acted like such a coward for so long… He could have been yours. You’ve been missing out for quite some time. During his seduction, his legs opened for me like he’d been waiting a decade for you spread them apart. For someone who was virgin for thousands of years,” the thing laughed airily, “Castiel sure fucks like a whore.”

For the next few moments, Dean lost control of himself. All reminders that Cas was inside this thing were forgotten as his vision narrowed with rage. His fists wailed on the thing, hitting his jaw and cheekbone not once, not twice, but over and over, his rage thrumming through his veins and making him see red.

The thing had used his fucking _face_ to manipulate Cas. The thing had twisted the bond between them—a bond that was _theirs_ , it was _private,_ it was _just for them_ —and used it for evil. Dean choked on the fury, suffocated on the pure monstrosity of the deception. He felt broken for Cas, who suffered through the falling of angels, from Metatron’s betrayal, who lost his powers, his knowledge, his grace, his identity. He felt broken for Cas, who lost his wings, and was reduced to nothing but a human.

And if this _thing_ was telling the truth, he’d suffered from depression, felt lost and alone, and now he was a puppet for some blood-thirsty entity who raped him and made him watch as he hunted and killed Cas’ friends.

Dean’s hand reeled back, ready to swing his fist down again, when the thing gasped, its shaking hand raised to stop another strike.

Blue eyes blinked up at Dean.

Cas—his Cas—was blinking slowly, his hand trying to shield his face. Wet wheezing breaths were loud in the bathroom, interrupted by choking noises and gurgling.

Dean’s fist loosened and the anger instantly disappeared from his face, leaving his mouth open and his eyes darting over Cas’ features in terror and concern.

“Cas?” Dean breathed, and fuck, he sounded small. “C-Cas?”

Blue eyes blinked dully still, looking far away. Cas tried to roll onto his side, but was stuck under Dean’s weight.

Frantically, Dean swung his leg off of Cas, scrambling beside him, helping him turn onto his side. Cas groaned, blood dripping out of his mouth onto the tile. It hung from his lips by a thread that bobbed up, then down, drops of crimson blending into the thin stream already curling over the tile and into the drain. With Cas lying on his side, Dean could see the cut on the back of his head. It was only about an inch, but it looked deep. Dean pushed at the skin gingerly and Cas inhaled sharply in return.

After wiping blood on his jeans, Dean leaned over Cas, sliding a hand under his face, turning it up towards him. Cas’ eyes looked so blue…they were electric and shocking beside the blossoming purple and red bruises along the side of his face. Dean’s knuckles ached empathetically, but his heart ached worse, suddenly consumed by guilt.

“God, I’m so sorry, Cas… I’m so sorry,” Dean whispered, trying to hold his gaze, but it was proving impossible with Cas eyes seemingly unable to focus. “Its words, what it was saying. I-I just lost it. God, I’m such an idiot. I c-couldn’t help it—”

“Dean,” Cas whispered.

Dean bit hard down on the inside of his cheek to stop from weeping with relief. Cas’ voice—he missed it more than he’d realised. It felt so good to hear it without the malevolent echo and reverb from Hell. Dean could cry.

“Yeah, it’s me, buddy.”

Cas’ hand wavered in the air as it reached forward and slipped down onto the tile, pressing into the gruesome drain. “I’m dizzy.”

Unbothered by the gore and wounds—half of them he’d now personally inflicted—Dean ran a hand over Cas’ face and brushed his thumb over his chin in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

“I know, Cas. I’m right here though, I’m not leaving you.”

“Dean… _run_.”

The temperature seemed to drop in the room as terror crackled in the air. Dean knew what Cas meant and it filled him with devastation and anxiousness. Stupidly, he’d hoped that Cas was here for good, but he knew the thing would be back in moments. It would be back and Cas would be gone again.

“I can’t,” Dean whispered. “I can’t leave you here like this. Fuck, what did I do?” Green eyes darted from blue eyes to the thick brown lashes, wet and fluttering. “Cas, where did it go, the thing?”

Cas shook his head weakly, his eyelids fluttering. “It’s healing me, my… my body. I’m… I’m just here to … to endure the pain.” His throat bobbed up and down. Dean watched in horror as the small cut to the back of Cas’ head slowly knit together. “Dean, run… h-he’s coming back. Leave me.”

“No,” Dean replied stubbornly. “Cas, what it said before. I… I want you to know—”

Even dizzy and struggling to stay conscious, Cas seemed to flash him a pissed off glare. “Stop. He’s… doing this on... purpose. Letting y-you see me in pain… w-when he gets b-back, he’ll be stronger… Dean, _go_.”

Every nerve in Dean’s body screamed as he forced himself to gently rest Cas’ head down onto the tile. He stood and turned away.

Every footstep away from Cas felt like Dean was fighting against a forcefield. But with a duck to sweep up his gun and shoes, Dean left the bathroom, fighting every impulse to turn around.

With his shoulders squared and jaw clenched, Dean strode out of the bathroom and quickly walked towards the stairs, only pausing to shove his feet into his boots. He felt dizzy with everything that just happened, sick to his stomach with confusion. What was real? What was bullshit?

What if it had all been true?


	16. Chapter 16

By the time Sam and Dean ran into each other in the hallway, Dean was white as a ghost and holding his breath. 

Sam jumped, impulsively raising his gun.

“Holy shit!” Sam barked, lowering his weapon. Dean stared at him through wide eyes, his gaze darting to the muzzle of the gun that’d been pointed at his face almost immediately when he turned the corner. 

Sam swallowed hard. “You scared the daylights out of me, Dean! I almost shot you. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You said five minutes but it’s been like fifteen. I thought the worst.”

Dean nodded numbly, lips pressed tightly together. “Mmhmm.”

One look at Dean’s pale face and Sam had his hand on his arm, yanking him into the nearest doorway. 

Inside a spare bedroom, he left Dean pressed up against a wall and closed the door slowly, turning the knob in an achingly slow manner to remain quiet, to keep Cas from hearing them. With a quick flick of his wrist, he locked the door. 

The lights remained off, Sam not wanting the glow under the door to give away their hiding place. But he turned on the flashlight on his phone, dimmed it, and set it in a corner, just barely illuminating the room enough to see his brother’s face. He set the book tucked under his arm onto the bed.

Finally turning to Dean, Sam opened his mouth, ready to ask what was going on, though he was unprepared to physically _catch_ Dean, who dropped down the wall, knees trembling, his face draining of any remaining colour. The specks of blood on his face were a dark, deep maroon against his skin.

“Whoa! Whoa—Dean, you okay?” Sam dropped down beside his brother, his large hands reaching for him, finding resting places on his knee and shoulder. 

Green eyes, looking far away and stricken, stared at the nearest foot of the bed, glazed in thick, tortured tears. He looked absolutely lost and utterly distressed. His lips were parted slightly, and his brow was furrowed softly, a subtle crease carved between his eyes. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d think he was going into shock.

Gentle pats to Dean’s cheeks seemed to bring him back somewhat. Dean blinked and remained unmoving, turning his gaze to Sam, his lids looking exhausted and heavy, rimmed in red.

“The thing wore my face, Sam,” he whispered. He whispered it so quietly that Sam had to lean in a bit to hear him. But Dean’s dry swallows were audible in the silent room. “It got Cas because of me. He said yes because of _me._ ”

Imperceptibly, Sam’s head shook, his lips twitching downwards into a frown. “I don’t understand, Dean. It wore your face?”

Dean sniffed and ran his wrist over his upper lip. The tremble in his hand was concerning, it created a cold, heavy feeling of dread that settled into the pit of Sam’s stomach. What could have happened to upset Dean so much?

“To get Cas to consent, I guess,” Dean explained, his voice tight. His upper lip curled, his expression torn between anger and despair. “It said things to Cas to get him to say yes. Stuff he wanted to hear.”

“Like what?”

A small hitch in Dean’s breath made Sam regret asking. Dean continued to stare at him, looking shattered, though his eyes looked glassy like he didn’t even see Sam at all.

“I don’t know. I don’t know exactly. But,” Dean swallowed, “he probably said everything I was too scared to say.” 

Glancing at the door, thinking that they didn’t exactly have time for Dean to go catatonic, but Sam got the feeling Dean needed this moment to collect himself. He stayed kneeled beside Dean, a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Dean blinked quickly and bowed his head a bit, staring down at the floor. Sam could visibly see Dean struggle with something, could almost see the words roll around in his mouth. He glanced down at Dean’s hands, watching his fingers rub at his palms. “It seduced him and Cas said yes to it, thinking it was me. That’s what that fucking thing told me.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “You spoke to it?”

“I tried to hide but it found me,” Dean explained weakly. “It said some really twisted stuff, man.”

“Whatever it said, you can’t believe it, Dean. It’s a monster. Monsters lie.”

Sam’s heart broke as Dean tilted his head back against the wall and cried openly, tears running down his face. 

“Not this one, Sam,” Dean lamented. “I just know it. I can feel it. It was telling me the truth. Cas is possessed because of me. Because I was a coward. Because I failed to protect Cas _again._ Because I pushed him away and was too busy caring too much about what other people would think or how Cas wouldn’t want me.” Dean paused to release a small hiccuping sob. “I was so stupid, Sam. I could have been there for him. He’d been down, I knew he was depressed and I pretended like I didn’t.”

Dean dragged his wrist under his nose, sniffling. “And I knew. I-I always knew, secretly, that Cas had feelings for me. But I didn’t do a fucking thing about it, Sam. Because I stalled for too long, I left room for that _thing_ to use the fact that we both wanted each other against Cas.”

Dean wasn’t making much sense—he was rambling, but Sam got the gist of it. The vibes between Cas and Dean had been obvious to everyone except for them. The crackling bond between them wasn’t something anyone sharing a room with them could ignore. For a while, Sam wondered if he’d been imagining it. For years he convinced himself it was something that only an angel and his celestial ward could understand. Maybe it was a platonic connection that maybe Sam just didn’t get. But recently… Sam could see it. Kevin could see it. Every supernatural creature they’d ever faced could see it. He wondered how Dean and Cas couldn’t have seen it crescendo and crash down around them in violent, surging waves.

“Dean,” Sam said with gentleness, watching his brother struggle to keep it together. “This is not your fault. These monsters will always target our weak spots, our family. You can’t really think this is your fault.”

“It raped Cas last night,” Dean spat, lowering his face, his eyes wild and wide. “Fucking tell me that’s not my fault, I dare you. Last night, when he ran away, when we found him in the forest… That’s where that thing raped him.” Dean’s face crumpled and he swiped at his eyes. 

Sam’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened as cold terror settled in his stomach. Dean carried on, breath hitching, “As if Cas would have ever run away in the first place if I’d been more supportive of him, if I’d been there, if we’d listened to him, protected him better, if I’d loved him enough. Maybe… Maybe if he knew how I felt, maybe he might have wanted to stay, he wouldn’t have left, he wouldn’t have ended up in that forest...”

Sam froze, no part of him moving, shocked into stillness. Oh, God… how could anything ever do something so violent to Cas? No one deserved that, but least of all an angel who fell to protect Heaven, who died time and time again to shelter humanity, to preserve an earth that he thought was deserving of salvation. After everything Cas ever did for the world, he didn’t deserve _that_. Not the violence, the pain, not to suffering through something so traumatic alone. 

He didn’t deserve any of this. 

Dean searched Sam’s face. “How could I ever forgive myself? That _happened_ to him because of me. All of this is my fault. Cas is my fault. Those guys at the garage are my fault. Kevin is _my fault_.”

“Cas made his own decisions—”

“No,” Dean hissed through his teeth, his eyes fixed on Sam’s face, whirling with self-hatred. “I love him, Sam. I love Cas more than I ever loved anything other than you, than family. I’m… I’m in love with him, I’ve been in love with him since he gave up Heaven and thousands of years of servitude just to save me—save _us_ , to be here with us on this godforsaken planet. Now he’s basically gone—”

“No, he’s not—” Sam started.

“Yes, Sam. Don’t you fucking get it? We’re gonna die. We’re gonna die and Cas is gonna live in that vessel forever, all alone. He’s going to always think that he wasn’t wanted or loved.” At this point, Dean was talking to himself, looking at Sam but not seeing him. “Wanna know something fucked up? Cas thought I’d never want him because of his vessel. Because of his body.”

“Well, do you?” Sam asked quietly. 

Dean’s unseeing eyes blinked and suddenly he was present again. A teardrop fell from his lower lashes and slipped over the side of his nose, tumbling down and dispersing over Dean’s lips. 

“I do. Of course I do,” Dean whispered like a revelation, the tension and pain on his face slipping away for a moment, his brow unfurrowed and eyes wide. “He’s Cas.”

Sam remained silent, touched by Dean’s words. It meant the world to Sam to see Dean love someone. He’d never seen it before, not really. Dean was all jokes and cold steel, not love and longing. Sam had always wanted this for Dean—for him to see a future with someone, to be vulnerable with someone, to put his feelings in someone else's hands. Warmth spread in his belly for a moment at the thought of someone caring for Dean, taking care of him and being affectionate towards him. It was the future Sam had always wanted for Dean. And strangely, he couldn't picture anyone but Cas fulfilling that future, now that he knew what was in Dean’s heart. If Dean felt stupid for not seeing it, Sam felt doubly stupid for not truly seeing it—it was so clear now that Dean and Cas had always been meant to be.

Darkness rolled over those thoughts though. Cas was still trapped, still possessed. Sam would do anything to save him, and not just for Cas, but for his brother. So that his brother could find peace in the arms of someone who cared for him like he deserved to be cared for.

Unaware of Sam’s thoughts, Dean continued on meekly, “... but he won’t ever know. I’ll never be able to tell him. We’ll die and Cas will always think he was disliked, unwanted, a burden. He’ll never know he was loved. For real, by me, not by some fake twisted version of me who only existed to hurt him.”

“He knows, Dean,” Sam whispered. ”I’m sure of it.”

A slow, shaking breath pushed itself past Dean’s lips and his hands came up to his head, running through the dirty blonde locks, tugging gently. His eyes slid shut.

In what he hoped was an inspiring gesture, Sam squeezed Dean’s knee. “He _knows,_ Dean. And I mean…if he doesn’t, you’ll have to tell him. But first we need to find Crowley. He’ll tell us what’s in the book, what that thing is, and how to get it out of Cas.”

“And if we can’t?” Dean asked, raising his head, his hands falling from his hair.

Sam shook his head. “That’s not an option, Dean.”

“Right,” Dean huffed, shaking his head with disbelief. 

A quiet moment passed between them as Dean struggled to pull himself together while Sam sat quietly by his side in silent support. 

Then as Dean began to look embarrassed and shifted to get to his feet, Sam helped him up and asked softly, “Are you okay now, Dean?” 

While tears still soaked Dean’s blonde lashes, clumping them together and making his eyes look ridiculously pale and vibrant even in the dim cell phone light, he wiped at his cheeks. He nodded shakily, and while in a normal situation that gesture wouldn’t have been good enough, it would have to do for now. 

Two claps from Sam on Dean’s shoulder signified the end of that conversation.

“What are we gonna do about Cas? What if he finds us with Crowley? How are we gonna control that thing?” asked Dean quietly.

Sam exhaled through his nose, glancing towards the door. “Well, thankfully, I thought of that and I kind of have an idea.”

Pieces of thin, fragile glass crunched under the vessel’s feet, loud in the silence of hallways consumed with darkness. The entity within Castiel’s body growled in the blackness, feeling at home in the shadows, its fingers dragging over the smooth marble walls. He felt the shadows curl around the vessel’s limbs, twining up the vessel’s legs, humming with pleasure, slithering and curling fondly like they were coming home. The darkness whispered sweet nothings to him, pleased to be reunited.

The entity wanted to whisper back and revel in the soft caress of evil and darkness except... _Castiel wouldn’t fucking shut up._

The screaming and bitching was driving the entity _crazy._ The stupid human was rattling around, slamming into the walls of his prison, kicking and clawing. He wanted _out_. 

How _annoying._

“Continue to flail around in there, Castiel,” the entity hissed in the darkness, “and Dean’s pretty little face will end up on the receiving end of a thorough carving. Those beloved green eyes will be the first to go.”

He felt Castiel spit in his face. 

_Maggot._ As soon as he’d taken enough souls and his power was fully restored, he would eject Castiel and ensure his soul was being carved and cleaved into for the entirety of eternity. Then he would never have to deal with this high maintenance little cunt ever again. 

The entity was _exhausted_. Luring Castiel into consent had been the most grueling process in its memory. He’d made it seem easy when he was gloating to Dean, but _ugh_ , what a hassle. All the heartache and angst and pining and uncertainty—fuck, all he wanted to be done with this fucking soap opera. 

The entity stepped out of the darkness, into the swooshing red light. His chest rose and his shoulders curled back as he inhaled deeply, the scent of rot and hell smoke filling his nostrils. The demon—it was close. 

Before Castiel reeled back to slam himself against the interior edge of his prison, he stopped to scream in pain as the entity reached into his memories, slick razor-like claws ripping and tearing at his subconscious, searching. It zipped through memories of marble hallways, then metal shelving sliding apart. The entity flew through the hallways in Castiel’s consciousness, sweeping into the image of a dungeon and a small concrete room with a dangling singular light bulb above a table. 

Castiel fought roughly for a moment, interrupting the entity’s search, biting and breaking his nails over the entity’s ethereal form as he clawed viciously in attempts to sabotage the search. But he was shoved aside and the entity saw the crossroads demon clear as day, sitting haughtily at the table, neck and hands trapped.

White eyes slid open and the entity grinned, continuing its prowl, its feet picking up speed as it closed in on its target. With the route clear in his mind, the entity made quick work of sweeping through the maze of hallways. 

The blood soiled combat boots came to a slow stop when red lights flashed over the steel ‘7B’ marked on a heavy wooden door. The entity grinned and then snapped back, kicking down the door with a violent crash.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Winchesters?” the crossroads demon inside snapped. “Trying to give my vessel a bloody heart attack?” 

The entity twirled its blade in its hand and stepped into the room, peering around the darkness. Then it raised it hand towards the closed shelving units, palm flat, fingers spread gently. 

After tuning out Castiel’s incessant _bitching,_ all noise faded away and it inhaled deeply, focusing, trying to call on the rumbling power twisting in its stomach, struggling to awaken, still rather weak. But with focus, its power unfurled and rose like smoke, curling and twisting up his middle, breaking apart in his chest, surging up through his arm. His head tipped back and the entity moaned, reveling in the feeling of its power returning, even if slowly.

The shelving units slid apart swiftly, slamming into their sockets, sending clouds of dust bursting out of the sides, momentarily gathering in a hazy cloud at the entrance to the concrete room.

“We’re breaking down doors now? Is that supposed to be intimidating? You lumbering idiots,” the demon drawled. “No finesse, I tell you.”

The crossroads demon’s ugly little mouth was twisted, no doubt to say something else that was equally, if not more, grating and irksome. But as the entity stepped through the dust and stopped on the edge of the devil’s trap carved into the floor, the demon’s mouth dropped open. Its eyes widened and it pushed back in the chair as if trying to get as far away as physically possible in its confines. 

“No. It can’t be,” the slimy little crossroads demon blathered out like an idiot. 

In a gesture that came naturally to this particular vessel, the entity tilted its head, swinging the machete up, leaning the flat side of the blade boredly on its shoulder.

Crowley the crossroads demon swallowed hard. 

“ _You._ ”

“‘You’?” the entity sneered. It walked slowly around the outside of the devil’s trap, head turned to survey the demon with disgust. “Is that any way to address me? Your superior? The Original?”

The crossroads demon’s gaping mouth snapped closed and he nodded. “Right. Of course.”

 _Whooosh._ The machete sliced quickly through the air as the entity swung it down off of its shoulder. The entity disappeared behind the demon as he continued circling him, boots brushing the outside of the sigils embossed into the floor.

The demon sat very still in its chair, not bothering to try to crane his neck to look around. Carefully, it said, “I apologize, Taker. I just… I had no idea you were coming back. After that brief moment in ‘72 when you walked among us, you disappeared and there were whispers among the ranks that you were dead.”

The entity snorted and licked its lips, its eyes flashing irately for a moment even though it grinned. “I understand how you would think that. Those Men of Letters were just slightly less stupid than I had thought. I suspect there was an angel stationed among them, incognito, because someone managed to interpret my book and trap me inside it _again_.”

“How did you get out in the first place?” Crowley pried, raising an eyebrow. 

Though the eyebrow snapped back down when the Taker sauntered back into the lesser demon’s field of vision, its eyes narrowed.

“You’re a nosy one.”

“I’m sorry—” Crowley began, but his mouth snapped shut with an audible click of his teeth when the Taker tilted his head at him again, the movement additionally unnerving with the added growl rumbling from the entity’s throat. 

“Azazel, the idiot, lost me,” the entity spat, annoyance and distaste roiling in its belly. “He became too preoccupied with whatever bullshit he was doing in Kansas at the time. He left my book in a ‘safe place’ only to be located by these Men of Letters. Apparently wherever he left my book released a wave of dark signals that their equipment picked up on. The archangels felt it too, and sent an angel to live among the Men of Letters, to watch or maybe attempt to contain me—” the Taker paused to laugh. “Stupid of them. I ultimately possessed her, though not before she explained to them how to rid them of me.” 

He paused to mutter, “It is ironic that another angel would find themselves in this bunker these years later. Poor, weak Castiel.” 

He shook his head. “Anyways, they accidentally let me out. I made my way through three of them before they shoved me back in.”

“And what about this time?” Crowley asked.

The Taker stopped and its face twisted into an ugly scowl. “Curious, slimy little leech, aren’t you? Questions, questions.”

“You will have to forgive me, Taker. It’s an honour to be in your presence.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I can hardly control myself. You have been nothing but a legend. They still whisper about you in Hell, too frightened to say your name.” The demon smiled. “Like Voldemort.”

The entity paused. 

“I don’t understand that reference,” it sneered.

“It’s… nevermind,” Crowley muttered. His eyes flickered back up to meet the white, suspicious gaze on his face. “Forgive me. When you entered the room I was just…thrown,” the demon explained. “The vessel surprised me.”

The air around them seemed to grow heavy and thrum. The very shadows seemed to be coming alive. He could feel the uneasiness wafting off of the demon under the nauseating smell of its hell-rot.

“What? Castiel?” The entity dragged a hand down the vessel’s blood-soaked chest. “Surprised to see me inside of him? Admittedly, it was exhausting to gain his consent, but with some creative wording and enough persistence, he gave in. They always do.”

The other demon nodded quickly and shrugged, attempting (poorly) to appear casual by intertwining his entrapped hands, setting them onto the table. 

“Exhausting, yes,” the other demon—Crowley was his name, so said Castiel’s memories—raised an eyebrow at him. “I know Castiel, unfortunately, too well. ‘Exhausting’ is one way to classify the little blighter. I typically go for ‘vexing’ or ‘pesky’...Dead sexy, though.”

Crowley smirked a bit as the entity laughed lowly, stopping in front of him, toes pressed firmly against the outside of the trap. 

“Dean Winchester thinks so too, thankfully,” the entity mused with mirth. It raised a bloody hand, holding its pointer finger and thumb an inch apart. “I was this close to moving onto the prophet as a vessel instead. With Castiel, the usual seduction wasn’t working—no amount of deterioration was convincing Castiel to let me in. Not even angels whispering in his ear to come save them was enough to draw him to me. No amount of power promised to him would convince him to come to me.”

“And what does Dean Winchester have to do with this?” Crowley asked, eyes narrowing.

The entity laughed again. The demon flinched, just for the briefest flickering moment, but it pleased the entity. The shadows shook as if they were snickering too.

“I noticed his attraction to Castiel build. With every tiny indication of Dean’s interest, even small, even fleeting, Castiel was pathetically drawn to him.”

“Ah,” the demon drawled, a small smirk on its lips. “You noticed that pathetic love affair.”

“How could I not? They are followed by the faint humming of hoards upon hoards of butterflies flapping in their stomachs.”

“It’s nauseating.”

“Yes. It set my teeth on edge—the making eyes at each other, the lover’s quarrels and the way they wanted to touch each other constantly but refused to,” the entity made a noise of disgust. “I initially attempted to turn Castiel on Dean, just because they were infuriatingly annoying. Just on principle, really.”

“But the leverage,” Crowley snorted, tipping his head to the side.

The entity nodded, toying with the machete, turning it in his hands boredly. “Yes. I initially attempted to use angel radio and even my own whispers to draw him in. But the leverage with Dean was too good to pass up once I truly grasped how deep their bond ran.” 

Crowley frowned. “Angel radio and your whispers… He didn’t care for it, did he?” 

White eyes flickered up from the blade to the demon. “No, of course not. I tried every trick in the book. I tried to frighten him, to convince him no one could be trusted. I tried to paint his allies as enemies. I tried to draw him in with promises of power, enough to take him back to heaven and save his family. When that didn’t work, I took away the angels, and tried to put fear and doubt in his mind about their intentions. I filled his head with voices, pulling him toward the book.”

“I love it.” Crowley drawled, amusement dancing on his tongue. “If you intended to inject doubt, well, I daresay you chose the right vessel. Doubt is Castiel’s kink. Spank him with it hard enough and he’ll do anything for you.”

The entity ignored him and frowned. “I even had him cut into his angel warding tattoos on his back, hoping he would believe he needed to in order for his brothers and sisters to know he was still alive and listening.”

“Oh, nice touch.” The demon lifted his hands for a moment, pointing at the entity and raising his eyebrows in a brief look of admiration. “I do so appreciate your commitment to the craft.”

“Continuity. I needed to sell the story.” The entity twirled the blade in his hand. “Fortunately, it did make him doubt his own sanity, mistrust himself.”

The crossroads demon’s eyes kept darting to the blade. “Castiel is too easily persuaded to second guess himself. It’s in his nature.” 

“Indeed,” the entity sneered. 

Crowley’s eyes darted towards the machete again, licking his lips. Under a raised brow, he asked slowly, “Permission to ask another question?”

The entity raised the blade a bit, twisting it in the red light, watching the flashes across the metal. “I suppose I should let you ask questions while you still can.”

“Right. Of course.” Other than a few quick blinks in succession, the demon’s face gave away little else. He leaned his head to the side a bit and asked casually, “How did you ultimately use Dean to get to Cassie?”

The entity raised the dull tip of the machete up to Castiel’s face and dragged along his jawline, making a slow scraping noise across stubble that was loud in the otherwise silent room. 

“How do you think?”

Crowley did seem genuinely amused as his mouth opened a bit and his teeth flashed in a smile. “You don’t mean...”

“Like I explained to Dean not minutes ago,” the demon bragged, walking the edge of the devil’s trap again. “Castiel fucks like a whore. As long as I wore Dean’s face, he rolled his hips and took that cock like he was being paid for it.”

Crowley made a choking noise and seemed a victim to the string of chuckles that stuttered from his throat. “Wow, Castiel. Didn’t actually think he had it in him.”

The entity smacked its lips together slowly, face twisted into one of disgust. “I wish that’s all he had in him. It wasn’t enough to just fornicate—no, he had to have all these _feelings_. It wasn’t just desire—that was just a fraction of his attraction. No, it was devotion and longing. Fervor. Loyalty. It was _love_. My stomach is turning just thinking about it.” It paused. “Although I suppose it was love that kept his soul fresh and pure.”

Crowley’s face, briefly looking surprised and gleeful, faltered. “With the most paramount respect, Taker, I must point out; Castiel hasn’t exactly been known for, er, his purity. The very reason for his morality was his inability to act like a proper little cloud hopper—”

“I _know_ that, idiot.” The entity rolled its eyes, licking its lips in annoyance. “What he did or did not do as an angel doesn’t preoccupy me, but this soul is weeks old. It was created the moment his mortal feet touched the earth and his mortal eyes turned up to the sky to watch angels tear through the ozone layer.”

“So… you need to occupy a vessel with a pure soul?” 

When the machete came down violently towards the floor, Crowley jumped in his chair, betraying his pathetic attempts to look cool and casual. 

The devil’s trap in the floor flared up in a golden glow and then faded as it was broken. The tip of the machete had broken off with the force of the blow against the cement floor, but the force it was enough to scrape through the warding.

Crowley visibly bristled as the entity stepped over the trap, fixing him with a predatory stare and slow tilt of its head. 

“I’m tired of your questions, crossroads scum. Time to do what I came here to do. There are two other bugs listening outside the door that I need to squash,” the entity snarled, pointing at the slimy little hell maggot with the ragged, broken edge of the machete. Crowley’s hazel eyes widened, flickering from the entity’s twisted bloody face to the jagged blade.

“Why kill me when I can help you?” Crowley rushed out, shrugging casually, though the tremor in his trapped hands gave him away. 

He looked relieved for a moment when the machete was thrown aside, but that moment was fleeting when the entity raised its palm at him. 

White eyes slowly slid closed and the smoke within curled up again, building and pulsing inside of him. The shadows slithered across the walls, whispering encouragingly. Power rushed under his skin, crawling and slithering down his arm towards his hand. Castiel’s fingers flexed, tugging back, yanking the demon’s essence towards him. 

“You want to help me? Sit still,” the entity breathed through the exhilarating rush of power coursing through him. “Can’t risk you reading my book to those Winchesters, demon. The words from those pages will die with you. Goodbye, Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *inhales*
> 
> CROWLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYY! 
> 
> I love Crowley.
> 
> What'd you guys think of getting a glimpse inside of the Taker's mind? I mean, I know he's evil and a straight-up asshole, but I kinda love writing him.


	17. Chapter 17

They knew that the thing’s patience was coming to an end. The more questions Crowley asked, the deeper the rumble in its voice got.

Dean and Sam exchanged looks from either side of the door into 7B when the Taker indicated that he knew they were waiting in the hallway. It was time to move. The thing sounded progressively more bored and annoyed with Crowley, and if they were too slow, Crowley would die and so would their chance of saving Cas.

It had been informative to hear the thing’s side of the story, as heart-shattering and painful as it had been for Sam and Dean.

Dean had stood with his back against the wall, teeth clenched, stomach turning at the words coming from the thing’s mouth. He ignored the occasional pitying glance from Sam that hadn’t made the experience any easier. They had tried to stay hidden and quiet for the entire conversation, but as soon as Crowley began screaming, that was their cue to action.

The brothers twisted around the door and didn’t waste time crossing the space between themselves and the thing. Dean ran ahead, the pounding of his feet loud in the room, audible like war drums over the sound of Crowley’s rasping cries and rattling of his iron confinements against the table and chair as he struggled.

The thing—the Taker, as Crowley had called him—stumbled back, seeming to release whatever magic he was trying to conjure, and barely turned around in time before Dean was tackling him to the floor.

“FUCKING ‘BOUT TIME!” Crowley roared as Dean wrestled with the Taker on the floor.

Sam rushed in behind Dean, falling to his knees beside them, shoving his hands into the altercation to pin one of Cas’ arms to the floor.

When Dean managed to hold down the other arm and secure his legs around the Taker’s hips, Sam shoved his free hand in his pocket and grabbed a small syringe. In a swift movement, he tugged off the protective tip with his teeth and spit it aside, swinging his arm down to drive the needle into Cas’ shoulder. As soon as the entire needle slid into muscle, Sam pumped the drugs into Cas’ body. They had no idea if this was going to work, but it was their only shot.

“You IDIOT!” the monster roared, twisting Cas’ features into an ugly sneer. “You think that little cocktail you have… you think that’ll control… control me?”

The struggle to keep his head up was immediately evident, as Cas’ head bobbed back and the jerking movements to buck Dean off became more and more pathetic as the ketamine coursed through his body.

“Oh my god, it’s working,” Dean gasped, taking over from Sam, taking Cas’ other wrist and holding him down as Sam jumped to his feet and strode over to Crowley.

Tossing aside the used syringe, Sam grabbed the keys to Crowley’s restraints from his back pocket and began working on freeing the demon.

“You were out there the entire bloody time—I could smell your stink! And you only thought to, oh, I don’t know, casually pop in when he started with the torture?” Crowley snapped as Sam released his hands. Immediately, he grasped his wrists, rubbing at them and baring his teeth at Sam.

Side stepping behind Crowley to undo the collar, Sam rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Crowley. You’re alive, that’s what matters.”

“Love you too.” Crowley jerked his head out of the collar as it snapped open and swung down to the floor. He moved to get up, but gasped and shuddered when Sam drove a large needle into the back of his neck, pushing his blood into Crowley’s flesh, pumping him full of the humanity he feared so much.

Crowley braced himself on the table, palms flat on the surface, and he panted for a moment, squeezing his eyes closed.

“What was that for?” he growled, giving his head a shake.

The syringe was thrown aside like the other one. Sam frowned at Crowley and jutted a commanding finger in his face. “Don’t forget your place here. You’re coming with us and you’re going to help us.”

“Or I could just—” Crowley raised his hand, poised to snap his fingers—“kick this popsicle stand and find myself a secluded beachside villa in Hawaii to ride this out while you dolts bumble around here and figure this out on your own.”

Sam glared. “If you leave, Cas dies. We die. I know you don’t care about that, but if we die, then that thing gets out. And from the pieces we translated in that book, I have a feeling not even a beachside villa in Hawaii will save you from the shitstorm this monster is going to stir up.”

Crowley lowered his hand back down to his side and scowled.

On the other side of the table, Dean held onto Cas’ wrists, holding him down, staring desperately down at his face. Between his legs, the hips bucking up to him were becoming weaker, and the wrists wriggling under Den’s hands were quickly relaxing, the fingers unfurling and fists unclenching. Lids lined in thick brown eyelashes drooped down slowly, brows dipping to frown and relax as the chemical restraint pulled him closer to unconsciousness.

Maybe there was a flash of blue in those eyes, but maybe not. Dean looked for it urgently, dearly hoping that he’d seen it right, but the monster fought the anesthetic pitifully, its lips struggling to sneer.

“You…” it breathed, Cas’ face tilting helplessly towards the floor. “You… little cunt. I-I will kill you.”

Ignoring the sick words oozing out of his Cas’ mouth, slurred and venomous, Dean’s head snapped up, fixing Sam with a determined stare. “It’s working, Sam. Holy crap. It’s working.”

Yanking a struggling and bitching Crowley around the table by the arm, Sam nodded. “Good. Let’s move.”

Dean held onto Cas’ wrist as he maneuvered his arm around his shoulders and slid his other arm under Cas’ knees, hauling him up against him, holding him to his chest. He nodded to his brother.

“Right on. Let’s go.”

“You know that’s not going to hold him for very long?” Crowley grouched as Sam dragged him into the hallway, following Dean who was moving swiftly while trying not to drop Cas.

They scrambled down a set of stairs.

“Let me go!” Crowley barked, jerked his arm out of Sam’s grip. His freedom was fleeting because Sam pushed him up against the marble wall, hand around his throat.

“Fine,” Sam hissed through his teeth. “But if you try any funny business, Crowley, we will hurt you. We will hurt you _a lot._ We have shitload of weapons and very little patience right now. Your shenanigans won’t fly today. You’re gonna help us, do you understand? You’re gonna tell us what’s in the book, and how to kill this thing, and how to save Cas—”

“LET’S GO!” Dean bellowed from downwind of them, peering around a corner, farther ahead. “Before he fucking wakes up!”

Sam’s head snapped back to Crowley, whose eyes were glittering strangely. With a visible swallow, the demon nodded jerkily.

“Of course.”

Sam shoved Crowley ahead of him, eyes narrowed. “We’re on lockdown,” he explained, falling into stride with the crossroads demon, a muscle in his jaw jumping, “so that means no one gets to leave.”

“You can’t turn it off?” Crowley asked irately, feet tapping quickly down a small set of stairs. “Surely, you can--”

“We can,” Sam explained, picking up his pace, following Dean to their destination. “But if we unlock the doors for ourselves, we unlock the door for that _thing._ ”

“Right.” Crowley muttered, walking in tandem with Sam around a corner. “That can’t happen.”

Sam snorted. “I can’t believe you actually agree. Surely you don’t care about the innocent victims he might hurt out there?”

“I couldn’t give less of a shite about your pathetic human race,” Crowley scoffed, walking ahead of Sam, who scowled deeper. ”I care about myself. And if the Taker finishes his ritual, we’ll all be right _fucked_.”

Dean kicked open a door to the archives and hurried to the back of the room where they had left the hatch waiting and open. Sam and Crowley stayed at the door, having some kind of discussion that involved a lot of hissing and snapping and snarky banter. Dean didn’t care for it. He had other shit to worry about.

In his arms, Castiel felt heavy and completely subdued. Whatever drugs Sam had found in the infirmary—ketamine? Like Special K? If Dean had any idea they had some of that stuff stocked in the infirmary, maybe the last couple months wouldn’t have been so taxing.

The stairs down to the dark magic artifact room creaked under his feet, and his pace quickened as the heavy body in his arms began to move. Cas’ groans sent Dean’s heart into overdrive, slamming into the wall of his chest in panic.

 _It_ was coming back.

He barely set Cas down onto the floor in time, his knuckles dragging against the pavement as Dean slid his fingers from underneath Cas’ head. As much as he wanted to stay, because Cas was lying on the floor, face twisted into a look of pain for a moment—he knew the thing was coming back, and it wasn’t gonna be all Cas in there. Dean’s heavy feet _just_ made it up the stairs before the terror-striking growl echoed off of his back.

Dean hurried into the room above. He’d barely twisted his body to face the open doorway before the thing in Cas was on its feet again, swaying at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at him.

“You’re going to fucking die, Dean Winchester,” it snarled, face barely visible from the shadows flooding its pure evil features. “When I become free once more, Castiel is going to watch as I rape you like I raped him. He’s going to feel your blood between his fingers and the crack of your bones in his palms—”

Dean was paralyzed as he stared at that horrific face tilt at him through the shadows, Castiel’s features twisted into something from a nightmare. He felt the beginning of tingles in his legs, the feeling tempting his knees to go weak.

The bone-chilling image of Cas at the bottom of those stairs, watching him with hungry, murderous eyes, was cut short when Sam pushed the door to the hatch down, shutting it with an alarming crash.

Dean snapped out of it and got onto his knees, helping Sam slide the lock closed just in time for the doorway to shake as Castiel rammed up into it, trying to get free. Sam and Dean both stumbled back from the trap door, feet unsteady as the floor shook with every thrust of Castiel’s body against the doorway. Even Crowley, who had been abandoned at the doorway by Sam, faltered on his feet, grasping onto the doorway for balance as the floor trembled.

“Is that going to hold him?” Crowley barked, eyes darting between Dean and Sam.

“The walls were etched in symbols and sigils,” Sam puffed out, shaking hair from his face. “I think it would be a solid guess to say that they existed to keep that thing in.”

“LET ME OUT!” the horrific roar screeched out from beneath their feet.

Dean and Sam followed Crowley’s lead, grasping onto shelving as their balance was thrown off. The sounds of glass shattering and shelves crashing to the ground sounded under their feet in the room below. It moved, sounding closer, then farther away.

For a moment, the noises ceased altogether and Dean, Crowley, and Sam straighten up. Then they heard snarls and persistent, steady thumps.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

Dean’s frightened green gaze found his brother, looking frantic. “What’s he doing?”

Sam swallowed hard, licking his lips. “It… sounds like he’s hitting himself against something.”

_Thump._

“Fuck,” Dean said under his breath, shaking his head, his features twisted horribly. “He’s killing himself down there.”

“Not himself,” Crowley interrupted grimly. “Just Castiel.”

They all froze, listening carefully as the noise and commotion suddenly stopped. Dean was torn between feeling relief and dread.

Then, in a voice that was familiar—rough like gravel, but music to Dean’s ears—sounded from just under the hatch.

“Dean?”

It was Cas’ voice. The real Cas’ voice. Dean’s heart began pounding.

“Dean, help me. It… It’s dark. I don’t know where I am.”

Dean paced, running his hands through his hair, rubbing them over his face and watching the hatch door with tumultuous eyes. Sam watched his brother, shaking his head, a warning on the tip of his tongue.

“Dean!” Cas pleaded roughly, suddenly. “Don’t leave me down here. Please!”

It nearly took all of Sam’s efforts to drag Dean away from the hatch when his older brother rushed to open it up again.

“Don’t be stupid, Dean!” Sam growled, pushing Dean out of the room.

Out in the hallway, Crowley smirked as Sam pushed Dean against a wall and shook his head roughly, fists bunched up in Dean’s shirt.

“You’re no use to him dead, Dean!” Sam exclaimed. “Calm down. Think. The thing is using Cas to get to you, don’t give in.”

“Sam, you don’t understand!” Dean rasped, eyes staring over Sam’s shoulder into the room.

“Dean, I understand you want to save him but—”

“It lets Cas take over when he’s in pain to…to torture him,” Dean explained, eyes desperate and lost.

Sam gave him a shake, forcing green eyes to meet hazel ones. “Or it could be tricking you, Dean! Use your head. Does that really sound like Cas? You think Cas—knowing what’s inside of him—would beg to be let out?”

Sam and Crowley watched Dean as his jaw clenched and his head bowed a bit, nodding slowly.

“No,” Dean murmured after a long stretch of silence, smiling bitterly and shaking his head. ”Cas would beg us to run.”

“Exactly.” Sam let him go and stepped back.

Dean’s eyes turned on Crowley. With a voice drenched in determination, and a maybe a bit of threat, he ordered, “You’re gonna tell us all about this fucking _thing_. I want to know every detail.”

“You got the book?” Crowley asked, his eyebrow raised. When Dean and Sam exchanged looks then nodded, the demon gestured down the hallway. “Let’s have at it then. Lead the way.”

Crowley laid the book down onto the library table with a heavy sigh. He propped up his chin on his fist and gestured to the book with this other hand, looking peeved.

“While I’ve been abundantly clear about this through our long, arduous, and irritating relationship, I would just like it on the record that you both are the stupidest humans I’ve had the displeasure of knowing.”

Dean leaned back in the dusty armchair Cas had sat in yesterday and put his feet up on the library table, scowling at the demon. “Shut your fucking mouth, Crowley. Just tell us what’s in Cas and how we kill it.”

“Dean,” Sam warned.

Crowley let his hand drop to the table and one eyebrow curled up onto his forehead. “Sorry, am I shutting my mouth or telling you how to save your little boyfriend? The instructions are a tad unclear.”

Because Dean looked like he was two seconds from leaning across the table and slamming Crowley’s face into the table, Sam interjected quickly.

“Enough, both of you. Crowley, tell us everything you know about this thing.” Sam licked his lips and looked down at the book spread open on the table. Hazel eyes turned up to survey Crowley. “You called it ‘Taker’?”

Crowley flipped through the book casually, frowning down at the pages. “Yes. What you boys and your pea-brained ex-angel friend managed to release is what we in Hell like to call the Taker of Souls.”

With a dramatic clearing of his throat, Crowley flipped to the wretched page that started it all. With an air of importance, he translated the page for them.

“ _I evoke the Taker of Souls to earth. He will reap souls and break the barriers between Heaven and Hell to bring all entities down to Earth_ ,” he read. “ _I will reap the souls and swallow for Him. Earth will be mine._ ”

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, their stares darkening. Crowley looked up from the text and surveyed them each for a moment before commenting lightly, “Fun stuff, right?”

“The funnest,” Dean muttered dryly, rubbing his eyes.

The pages of the book crunched as Crowley flipped through the book, shaking his head. “Of all the idiotic things you three have done, this takes the cake. The Taker of Souls is a nasty piece of work. He’s evil, he’s corruption. He repulsive and one of the most powerful legends in Hell. He’s an ancient being,” Crowley explained grimly, before adding with a small smirk, “and he’s a complete arsehole.”

“Ancient?” Sam asked, looking worried. He leaned forward on the table, linking his hands. “How ancient?”

“As ancient as they come, just short of being from God’s actual hands.” Crowley flashed Sam a wry smile, though his eyes looked dark. “Well, technically he did come from God’s hands, if you buy into the whole ‘angels are the messengers of God’ thing.”

Sam and Dean exchanged wide eye looks and Dean slid his legs off the table, leaning forward to stare hard at Crowley. Sam’s throat bobbed nervously. “Angels? This thing is an angel?”

“Not quite,” Crowley drawled. “And you’re jumping ahead of me, sweetie. What I’m trying to tell you is that the Taker of Souls was the handiwork of Lucifer himself.”

Pleased with Dean and Sam’s rapt attention, Crowley continued on. “You see, the Taker of Souls was Lucifer’s first attempt at a crossroads demon. Created at some point during the first foundational decades of Hell, in all its infancy.

“Luci was furious with his father, betrayed by his exile. He wanted revenge on the humans which his father loved more than himself and all the other winged morons,” Crowley said with a snort. “He wanted revenge on Heaven for casting him away. So begun the cogs in the plan to create an army to lead into battle—a battle, which rumor has it, was supposed to take place on earth. He swore to rip the Heavens down to Earth and raise every twisted soul in Hell onto this mortal plane.” Crowley linked it’s fingers together in demonstration. “A meeting of two words—lightness and darkness.

“The Taker of Souls was supposed to convert humans—who God loved more than anything —into twisted versions of themselves, more savage then demons, soulless,” —Dean fought off a wave of nausea as he remembered the undead-melty thing from the auto-glass place. “These abominations, they were supposed to fight wars for Lucifer against Heaven. They were meant to populate Hell. He wished to corrupt and defile the sinner mud monkeys who broke commandments—the sinners that his father cherished more than him. It was the ultimate middle finger to dearest Daddy.”

“Crossroads demon 1.0, huh? How did Lucifer go from the Taker of Souls to—” Dean gestured flippantly at Crowley, “whatever you are.”

Crowley snorted. “Remember, this was still back in the day when Lucifer was a freshly exiled angel. Sure, he had daddy issues, but he still held _some_ angelic morals. They didn’t last very long, but he did have them for a time. He was revolted by the Taker. He found him repulsive, too twisted and too savage. Lucifer wanted to build an army in Hell, but I suppose he found the Taker’s lack of finesse disquieting. Let’s just say… The Taker liked to play with his food before he ate it.”

Dean shook his head. “Weird that fucking _Lucifer_ would care about that.”

“The Lucifer that exists now would adore the Taker,” Crowley replied smugly. “But like I said, back in the day he was furious with his father, but it came from a place of rejection. Humans were his father’s creation; he was jealous of them, but they were still his father’s work. He hated them, but I can’t imagine that archangel wished to do things to them like the Taker did. The Taker is evil incarnate. It didn’t discriminate on which souls it took, though he did have a penchant for the pure ones.”

Dean and Sam exchanged looks, mouths twisted in twin expressions of disgust.

“Virgins, children, the devout. He had a fascination with destroying purity. He took his orders to the extreme. Lucifer wanted to punish sinners, the Taker wanted to punish everyone,” Crowley shrugged. “ _So_ in came the crossroads demons. Version 2.0 as you might say, Squirrel,” Crowley snarked, eyes flickering to Dean. “Our objectives were similar: populate Hell with souls. But we were brought on much later, after the Taker had been sealed away. We came up with our ten-year deals, which I believe Lucifer thought was a vast improvement. I think the idea that the humans had corrupted their souls themselves was poetic to him. A subtle jab of ‘I told you so’ to his father.”

“Why was the Taker sealed away?” Sam questioned, brows raised.

Crowley sat back in his seat, crossing his legs, and smirked. “Apparently the inner circle of Heaven caught wind of Lucifer’s plan to build an uprising. It got back to Lucifer that Michael was due to lay siege onto Hell and end him permanently; Daddy’s orders.”

“Yikes,” Sam breathed, shaking his head. Everyone at the table understood the magnitude of God finally deciding to annihilate his son instead of just casting him out of Heaven. Lucifer would have been _pissed_.

“So,” Crowley continued, “despite the fact that Lucifer found the Taker to be an unworthy disgusting savage, he knew God would find him equally repulsive, and in retaliation to being threatened, he sealed the Taker away in a book and trusted no one other than Azazel to hide it on earth.”

“Azazel?!” the Winchesters said in shocked unison.

Crowley’s face turned to Sam, who looked disgusted. “Yes, love. Azazel; your favourite of Lucifer’s inner circle. He was frequently on earth and Lucifer trusted him to use the darkest blood magic available to conceal the hiding place of the Taker.”

“How the hell,” Dean snapped suddenly, causing both Sam and Crowley to jump, “did that stupid book end up in the bunker?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley shrugged. “I can only speculate at this point. Before recent shenanigans—you know, the angels and demons racing to tug of war over the apocalypse? Remember?”

“We’d almost forgotten,” Dean snarked dryly, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, before _those_ shenanigans, I had heard whispers of the Taker’s reemergence at some point during the early 70’s. That may have had something to do with the book’s appearance in the bunker.”

“Did Michael ever end up laying siege on Hell?” Dean asked.

Crowley got to his feet and pulled a bottle of old Whiskey from a library self, dragging a glass over with him.

“Uh, nuh-uh!” Dean snapped his fingers and sat up, shaking his head with a frown. He gestured to the aged amber liquid. “That’s mine.”

Crowley stopped mid-pour and raised his eyebrows at Dean. “Fine, you keep the whiskey, I’ll keep my information about the Taker.”

“Dean,” Sam warned when Dean gritted his teeth and pointed a finger at the demon, ready to use his sharp tongue. With a stinky glare, Dean heeded his warning tone and relaxed, but just barely.

Crowley winked at Dean and continued pouring. “Michael did enter Hell. There was a confrontation between them. Obviously, we are all here still, so nothing catastrophic happened, though I’m sure that winged wanker threatened fire and brimstone and destruction if Lucifer attempted any assault on Heaven or his daddy’s clothed apes.”

“Hey,” Sam asked, looking confused as he shook his head. “Why did Lucifer bother sealing the Taker away on earth? Why not just destroy him?”

“Ah, yes. The plot twist,” Crowley chuckled, sitting back down and raising the amber liquid to his lips. “Legend has it that the Taker of Souls was infused with angelic grace... Lucifer’s personal grace.”

“Why?”

“I suppose he infused him with grace as an insurance policy, just in case the big showdown did end up occurring on earth and Hell began losing. With grace, the Taker could walk into heaven without detection, so that he could open the gates and cast all the angels out.”

“I mean, I’m happy he didn’t do that,” Sam said, “but I mean…why not just do that in the first place?”

Crowley frowned. “If you use your backup plan first, it’s not quite a backup plan, is it, Moose? Some people strategize before heading into battle, unlike you knuckleheads. The Winchester way of running balls-out into combat doesn’t work for anyone but you, and even with you the failure rate is astoundingly high.”

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, frowning with displeasure. They were not amused.

“How did the angels not know about this monster anyway?” Dean asked, wincing. “I mean… Cas… he should have known about the Taker right? Michael broke into Hell to stop Lucifer so clearly Heaven knew about him.”

Crowley shrugged. “I imagine that was top level classified information in Heaven. Who knows? I never heard of angels pursuing Azazel to retrieve the Taker’s tome. To me it all seems like a big soap opera family drama between God and his original kiddies.” Crowley paused. “Actually, it wouldn’t be surprised if the Lucifer and his first perverse creation are a dark family secret. ‘Don’t tell our blindly devout angel-slaves, they might not love us as much if they knew how dysfunctional we really are’,” he mocked, his voice high.

“Okay, Crowley,” Dean growled, though he secretly agreed. “That’s enough.”

“How do _you_ know so much about this story anyway? Wasn’t all this before your time?” Sam asked, his eyes narrowing.

Crowley slurped obnoxiously on his whiskey. “Lucifer is a storyteller. Tales of the Taker were passed down through generations of demons and monsters. A bone-chilling tale of fear and terror. A bedtime story to scare demons into submission, if you will.” Crowley smirked. “I can’t complain. The Taker is the reason crossroads demons are so well respected in Hell.”

“We don’t care about how ‘well respected’ you are in Hell. Get on with the explanations, it’s what you’re here for,” Dean snapped. “What were you and the Taker talking about when he said Cas was pure?”

The glass thunked down onto the table. “Well, he said his soul was weeks old. What I gauged from what he said was that Castiel’s soul was ‘fresh’,” Crowley said with an twinkle in his eye. “As soon as he became human, he was granted his own soul. Brand new, untarnished. A soul in its infancy, read for tainting. A blank slate.”

“What about Kevin?” Sam asked, before he added with a strangely guarded look on his face. “What about… me?”

Dean slowly turned to look at Sam, his lips twisted into a confused frown. “What are you talking about, Sam? Did you _want_ to be possessed?”

Sam’s eyes widened and he shook his head. Still, he shrugged. “I just thought… y’know, that I had been purified. With the trials and all.”

Crowley snickered, which earned him a twin set of classic Winchester glares of death. He fixed Sam with a smirk. “Aw, Moose. You were hoping that your soul had been purified? That you wouldn’t continue walking this earth as Satan’s abomination?”

“Shut up, Crowley!” Dean barked, but glanced at his brother. The way Sam shifted in his seat was telling. Dean blinked quickly. “Sam… you can’t be serious?”

“I just wanted to know,” Sam said through his teeth. “I thought with the trials—”

“You didn’t finish the trials, Moose,” Crowley snorted. “The only way your soul would have been cleansed was through death. That’s why you had to die to finish the trials.”

There was a heavy silence. Crowley seemed undisturbed, but Sam stared down hard at the table while Dean stared hard at him, looking a bit heartbroken.

“Sam…”

Sam waved a hand in the air and shook his head. “It’s nothing. Forget it. What about Kevin? He was pure. I mean, I think so? Whatever ‘pure’ means.”

“Kevin never killed anyone.” Crowley sat back in his chair and finished off his drink. “Never did the horizontal tango. He was pure, but he was a prophet. He would be hard pressed to succumb to any of Hell’s temptations. Castiel on the other hand… he had a pure soul and a list of motivations to give into temptation. Isn’t that right, Dean?”

The pointed look Crowley gave Dean made him look away, green eyes tumultuous with guilt, staring hard down at the table. Dean’s face grew hot as Crowley chuckled into his glass.

“The Taker said he tried to… ‘deteriorate’ Cas,” Dean forced past his lips, his voice gruff. “What does that mean, ‘deteriorate’?”

“It’s an old-school tactic,” Crowley sighed wistfully. “Dramatic, really. Too dramatic for even my tastes—a bit too messy, if you ask me, but it shows commitment. The Taker is a bit of an old-school ancient, so I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

He looked between the Winchesters and the corner of his lip twitched up. “Have you ever watched the Exorcist or, well, any film about possession? That’s deterioration. It means he tried to break him down. It means creating bodily and mental vulnerability to get victims to say yes to whatever—deals, possession—out of fear. Usually it involves breaking down the body to make victims sick, tired. They hallucinate, self-harm, hear voices, go slowly insane. I imagine the Taker wouldn’t let Cassie eat, perhaps he played on his depression, made him weak and vulnerable. I imagine at some point near the end he couldn’t separate reality from nightmares—”

“We get it!” Dean interrupted, raising a hand to silence the demon, who looked like he was having fun reminiscing about old school demon possession.

Sam swallowed audibly, glancing at Dean. “‘Everything tastes like ash’. You remember Cas saying that?”

Dean nodded, staring down at the table again, looking both furious and devastated. He exhaled shakily, picking at a hangnail. “Yeah, he kept telling us about voices, that he was going insane. Last night he told me ‘something was in here with us’.”

Sam added, “He said he was hearing voices from within the walls, seeing things...”

Dean picked at a hangnail so badly it bled. He shoved the hand in between his legs and growled, “He was sick—had a fever and I just gave him a Tylenol like a fucking idiot. Some hunter I turned out to be.”

Crowley chortled as he poured more whiskey into the glass. “ _Tylenol, proven pain relief for your aches, pains, and demonic possession_.”

Sam reached out and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. It garnered no reaction. Dean stared down at the table, his head shaking a bit.

Sam’s hand squeezed. “Dean, we didn’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Dean spat, looking up, though he didn’t look at Sam. “We knew, Sam. We all knew something was up with him. We’ve been hunting since we were kids. We _knew_ something was up. Hell, we kinda knew he was possessed, didn’t we? But we just kept saying ‘we’ll deal with this tomorrow’.”

When Dean’s hand came down hard onto the table and he stood, even Crowley jumped along with Sam. Dean turned away and paced at the end of the table.

Bitterly, he sneered, “Well, we didn’t deal with it tomorrow, did we?”

Sam watched his anguished brother sadly. “Dean, we still have time. We’ll deal with it now.”

“KEVIN IS DEAD!” Dean roared, spinning around on Sam, his face red. “‘We’ll deal with it now’ is not consoling, Sam! It’s too little too fucking late! Kevin is _dead_ because I didn’t take care of Cas like I was supposed to! _Cas_ is as good as dead. Their deaths are on my hands. I didn’t make Cas a priority and now everyone is going to die—”

“‘We’!” Sam yelled back, getting to his feet.

“We?” Dean asked, his face twisted angrily. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

Sam’s finger jutted hard into his own chest. His eyes were ablaze. “ _We_ didn’t prioritize Cas, okay? I know you two were in love—” Dean’s breath hitched and he seemed to recoil for a moment, “but he was my best friend, okay? This is not only on you, Dean!”

“Will you two knock it off with the hysterics?” Crowley barked, surprising the two brothers.

Dean and Sam turned to stare at him, surprised that he had the gall to butt in.

Crowley rolled his eyes and got to his feet, closing the bottle of whiskey and grabbing the glass off the table. As he put the drink away, he explained loudly, “I think the family drama can wait until I get out of here, no? Let’s end this B-list horror movie so I can leave this disgusting little bunker.”

Dean stepped towards Crowley, his hand actually making a move to pull out his gun, but Sam’s hand went out to stop him. He gestured at Crowley furiously, pointing at him from across the table.

“You’d better know how to end this, Crowley.”

Crowley licked his lips and surveyed the boys out of hooded eyes and a raised brow.

“You’re in luck, boys. That, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. The Taker of Souls. Let me tell you about the Taker of Souls:
> 
> He has two Fendi purses and a silver Lexus.
> 
> I heard he does car commercials... in _Japan_.
> 
> One time... he punched me in the face. It was _awesome_.
> 
> Kidding. Wrong movie. 
> 
> So the Taker of Souls is the actual name of the monster from The Evil Dead. I had based my version of the Taker of Souls on that creature initially, but it was important to me that the lore got integrated into SPN canon lore, hence the history lesson in this fic. So after my twisting and molding, the only lore from the movie that truly survived was the taking of five souls, the ways to kill it, and the name. Even its personality changed after I was done with it. Other than a foul mouth and a predatory nature, the creature ended up having a bit more...eh, _finesse_ than the Big Bad in the movie. Regardless, it was super fun to re-watch the movie with Cas in mind as the villain. 
> 
> What'd you think of this chapter? Let me know!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THIS WARNING:
> 
> While the non-con in this chapter isn't terribly graphic, there is definitely an attempted sexual assault, so if that squicks or triggers you, please do not proceed. Skip the chapter if needed.

“These notes are atrocious,” Crowley commented, scrunching his nose at the scrolls that had accompanied the ancient book. “They look like they were written by a drunk baby.”

“Can you make sense of them or not?” Sam growled through his teeth.

Dean noticed that Sam’s patience seemed to have run out. He watched his brother’s fingers tap incessantly on the wooden table top and fix Crowley with a look that seemed to bore into his face, alight with urgency and anger.

Crowley shoved the scrolls aside and sighed as he pulled the book toward himself. “I could make sense of them, yes, but they are essentially useless. I haven’t learned anything I didn’t already know.”

“Is there anything in the book?” Dean asked, watching Crowley flip through it.

The demon nodded. He pressed the tip of his finger onto the page, dragging it along as he read, “ _Once He feasts on five souls, the sky will bleed again and the abomination will rise_.” Crowley raised his head, looking from Dean to Sam. “Has Cassie snacked on any souls yet, boys?”

“Does ripping out a dude’s trachea and licking the blood off his hands count?” Dean asked flatly, eyes going dull.

Sam grimaced. “Ew. He really did that?”

Crowley snorted. “So dramatic, that arse. Yes, Squirrel, that counts. Blood is life, so if he consumes it, a soul is taken. Anyone else?”

“And two other guys at the auto-glass place,” Dean murmured.

Then there was a long pause where Crowley glared at each brother in turn. “So… three total? That’s just fantastic.”

“Four,” Sam said quietly, his head dipping down and his throat working.

“Four?!”

“Kevin,” the brothers said together.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Crowley growled. “Good job on getting the prophet killed. Now we’ll have to find another one.”

For the second time in fifteen minutes, Dean tried to pull his gun out and Sam pushed his hand back down to get him to put it away.

“You’re pushing your luck, Crowley. We could get you to read this from the shackles downstairs,” Sam reminded him coolly.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “That’s four souls. He only needs one more. If he kills any one of us and tastes our blood, the world is royally _fucked_.”

Dean and Sam exchanged looks of disbelief.

“You don’t have a soul, Crowley. We were there at Plutus’ auction, okay? We remember.” Dean gloated. “You’re just smoke and rot.”

The look Crowley gave him did admittedly wipe the smirk off Dean’s face. Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “You really think if Plutus thought I didn’t have a soul, that I was going to correct him— _in front of everybody_? I don’t go around offering up that weakness, unlike you stupid dolts.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “If we were ignoring the indecent amount of human blood you’ve been pumping into me for weeks now, I would _still_ have a soul. I _am_ a soul. Demons are souls that have been twisted by torture and fear and darkness in the agonizing, grimy little corners of Hell for centuries. While unrecognizable—yes, you bumbling moron—I have a soul. And while it’s not pure, I don’t think the Taker is in a position to be choosy. One bunker, enough souls to finish his rise to power. That’s all he has, that’s all he needs.”

“What happens when he gets to five souls?” Sam breathed, eyes wide.

“Hell.” Crowley replied darkly. “Hell on earth. Heaven’s gates will be wrenched open. Lucifer’s war will no doubt begin. The Taker was part of Lucifer’s inner circle. You best believe if anyone can open Lucifer’s cage, it would be the Taker.”

Sam slid off his perch on the edge of the table and sat down shakily in a chair beside Crowley. His eyes stared unseeing at his armrest. “No…”

“Yes,” Crowley declared. “It would be the end of all things. It would be only pain and death and destruction.”

“All of your favourite things then,” Dean sneered.

But Crowley’s face didn’t change into an expression of glee or snark. He stared down at the book with an oddly sober expression.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose so.”

Sam frowned, then looked down at his forearm, where needle marks from the syringes were hidden under a plaid flannel shirt. His face softened and he looked up at Crowley, his features arranged into a sympathetic look. Sam looked like he might say something, but Dean interrupted.

“How do we stop this thing? How do we get it out of Cas?”

Crowley slowly looked up at Dean. He shook his head. “Sorry, love. I perhaps wasn’t entirely clear before. The only way to get your boyfriend out of the Taker is if the Taker willingly ejects Cassie himself and that’s not going to happen. As for stopping him…”

Dean visibly swallowed. Sam watched the colour in his brother’s face drain. Sam reached up from his seat and placed a hand on Dean’s knee as it bent over the edge of the table. Dean did not slide off the table as Sam had. He stood completely still, his wide eyes trained on Crowley.

“Don’t say it,” he warned, his voice tight.

“Sorry, love,” Crowley shrugged. “You know the drill if you’ve read these scrolls.”

He slid a scroll over to Dean. He and Sam leaned over it, directing their eyes to the text scratched into the parchment with aggressive red ink.

“ _WAYS TO KILL:_

_CUT OFF HEAD_

_BURY IT ALIVE_

_BURN IT ALIVE”_

Dean pushed off of his perch on the table and paced, running his hands through his hair and mumbling to himself.

“There has to be another way,” Sam pushed.

Crowley actually growled, seemingly fed up with the discussion. “Look, there’s no other way. If we want to live, we have to destroy the Taker. It’s a shame about the ex-angel, but his soul is in there with the Taker. As soon as the fifth soul is taken, he’s as good as gone. Castiel will be trapped in that vessel unless the Taker casts him out. And once he’s gotten his fifth soul, that vessel belongs to the Taker, he will have no need for Cas. If he keeps him around, it’ll be for shits and giggles. Castiel is basically beyond saving—”

“So Cas’ soul is still in there?” Dean asked roughly.

Crowley looked exasperated. “Yes, he’s still in there. The chosen vessel needs a soul while the Taker devours the five—it’s his source of energy.”

“So as long as we stop this douchebag from taking five souls, Cas still has a chance,” Dean thought out loud. “He can be saved.”

Crowley slapped his forehead. “You love-sick _idiot._ Consider Castiel gone, all right? We have to kill him, that’s the only w—”

Dean snapped.

“HE DESERVES TO BE SAVED!” Dean bellowed, crossing the space between him and Crowley, grabbing the demon by the scruff of his shirt and forcing his head down towards the book, his face inches from the pages. “Look harder, you festering hell sore! Read every fucking word in this book if you have to. Cas is not dying today, okay? He’s not dying tomorrow or the next day. He is going to die in his sleep, peacefully, in like forty or fifty years when he’s old and gray, do you understand, Crowley?”

“THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO!” Crowley roared back, shoving Dean away.

Sam stepped in between them when Dean jerked forward as if to strike the cowering demon.

“That’s enough!” Sam cried, pushing Dean back with a firm hand on his chest. “Control your temper, Dean. This is achieving nothing.” Sam’s head snapped back to Crowley. “Listen, do you think Cas could cast him out?”

“Not-blood-likely!” Crowley snarled furiously, spit flying. He yanked at his shirt, straightening his collar.

“But there’s a chance?” Sam pushed desperately.

Crowley’s eyes flashed, still fixed on Dean. Through his teeth, he replied in a hiss, “Sure, there’s a chance. Like winning the fucking lottery!”

“So there’s a chance.”

“Just do the humane thing and put him out of his misery!” Crowley yelled, gesturing wildly with his hands. “Even if—and this is a big _if_ —Castiel casts him out, he’s as good as dead. I saw him in there, covered in blood. I can only assume he’s been shot at and sliced up. That vessel is broken.”

“He’s been healing him, Crowley. Keeping him alive,” Dean argued.

“Oh, bullocks!” Crowley snapped. “He’s been keeping him _alive,_ not thriving. Who knows what kind of damage that vessel is going through? Just cut off his bloody head and let us be done with this!”

“We need a plan,” Sam said, turning to Dean and ignoring Crowley.

Dean nodded back. He nervously licked his lips and rasped, “If we there’s a chance Cas can cast him out, then we gotta try.”

Crowley leaned into their view, shaking his head incredulously. “And when that fails? We’re going to cut off his head, right? Burn him alive, maybe bury him outside in the dirt?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Dean spat.

“That means we have no plan,” Crowley pointed out flatly, his eyes becoming hooded and unimpressed.

Sam turned to his brother and placed two firm hands on his shoulders.

“Crowley is right,” he murmured. “We need a real plan, Dean. Plan A _and_ plan B.”

Dean tore his eyes from Crowley and looked up at his brother, the pain in his eyes suddenly very evident through the fury. He nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s make a plan.”

“This is a bad plan, Dean,” Sam whispered roughly half an hour later, hurrying to catch up to Dean as he strode purposefully into the depths of the bunker. “I don’t like it. It’s reckless.”

“If you call me reckless one more time, I’m gonna knock you out, Sam.”

“Dean! He could snap your neck just because he _felt_ like it!”

“He won’t,” Dean said firmly, turning a corner. His jaw clenched.

Sam looked unimpressed and pushed hair from his face with a jerky movement. “How are you so sure?”

“‘Cause I’m pretty sure he wants to leave me until last,” Dean replied grimly, his eyes darkening. He remembered the Taker’s words echoing in his head as easily as they’d echoed against the bathrooms’ tiled walls.

_Once I take my last soul, I’m tempted to not kill you so can keep you. My whore... I could chain you to the floor by your throat so you’re always on your hands and knees, ready for me._

“What would he want to leave you until last?” Sam asked, confused.

“You don’t want to know.”

But Sam seemed to have an idea because he paled quickly.

“We should re-think this. You can’t go in there alone, Dean. I can go with you, we can work together… Dean, listen!” Sam wrapped his fingers around Dean’s arm and spun him around, just before he reached the room with the archives and passageway down to Cas’ prison.

Dean huffed with exasperated. “Crowley needs supervision. I don’t care how much human blood is pumping through his veins, he can’t be trusted. Just make sure he’s making the traps right and just… Look, Sam, just make sure everything is ready. We can’t mess this up.”

A heated rebuttal was fresh on Sam’s lips and he opened his mouth to argue, but Dean grasped his wrist and jerked Sam’s hand away from his arm.

Determined, fiery green eyes turned to look up at Sam. “I’ll be careful.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in five minutes, maybe less,” Sam conceded. He looked ready to turn around and leave, but he visibly changed his mind and turned back to his brother. “Listen, Dean… this might be the last time we get to talk before stuff gets crazy.”

“Sam, no,” Dean groaned. “No goodbye speeches.”

Sam shook his head, and maybe there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. “No,” he murmured, “I know we’re not into that. Goodbye speeches are something we might’ve done when we were young and stupid. No, Dean, listen… I just wanted to make sure you understood something that Crowley said earlier.”

Dean’s frowned, confused. “He’s only British, Sam. I can understand him just fine.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, very funny. No, I mean what he said about Cas not being able to separate dreams from reality.”

Dean felt his face fall. His eyes clouded over and he felt a sinking, dark emotion swirl in his stomach.

"You know what that means, Dean? That he couldn't tell reality from dreams?"

Dean knew where he was going with this.

Sam, his ever adorable younger brother, said with hope, "Dean, what he said to you in the library..."

Dean heard the words clear as day. They twisted and churned inside him, making him feel like puking, like he had venom coursing through him. _You. You are poison. I hate what you’ve done to me. L-Look at me, what I’m becoming. You’re corrupt. D-Don’t ever touch me like that again. I will never want you._

"Cas had figured it out at that point,” Dean whispered in realization, though his tone was flat and sad. "He knew the Taker was wearing my face."

"Yeah, Dean. So... those words weren't for you,” Sam said in conclusion, a small smile on his lips. “They were for the Taker, not for you."

“Yeah,” Dean murmured, feeling his cheeks grow hot. His head dipped a bit and he pulled out his gun, busying himself with checking the rounds.

Sam’s hand slid onto his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I just wanted to make sure you knew. I think Cas would hate it if that’s how you thought he felt about you.”

Dean snorted, snapping the magazine back into the bottom of the gun. He raised his head and looked up bitterly at Sam. “Don’t do that, Sam. Don’t tell me that like Cas won’t have a chance to tell me himself. If… if it’s true, he can tell me to my face once this is done.”

Sam’s hand slid off Dean’s shoulder and his little smile faded. A long brown lock of hair slipped out from behind Sam’s ear, falling to his face. By the time he’d pushed it back into place, his smile was completely gone and Sam nodded solemnly.

“Okay, Dean. Be careful. Be quick. And Dean,” Sam added with a tone of warning, making Dean pause before he completely stepped into the storage room, “don’t listen to anything he says to you. That thing is not your Cas.”

Dean’s heart pounded as soon as he approached the hatch, eyeing the door with trepidation. The bravado in that hallway had been for Sam’s sake, because Dean was terrified. He steeled himself, trying to put on a brave face as he stared at the lock to the hatch and eyed the dents in it that no doubt had been left by the Taker trying to escape.

He willed his fingers to not shake as he gripped the lock. The sound of metal sliding against metal was loud in the silence, and the _thunk_ the bolt made as it was pushed as far as it could go made Dean cringe.

With a grunt, he pushed up the metal hatch door. A chill swept past him as the warding shifted and deactivated. He eyed the sigils on the underside of the hatch and then turned his gaze down into the darkness.

From his back pocket, Dean quickly retrieved the flashlight he’d brought. He clicked it on and shone the beam down the wooden stairs.

His breath caught in this throat and his hand tightened around the handle of the flashlight as he spotted Cas, seated on the bottom step. The knobs of his spine were outlined through his shirt as it stretched tightly across his back. He was curled forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed, and hands itching and clawing slowly at the back of his neck like a nervous tic. Blood trickled down from broken skin where he scratched, the tips of Cas’ hair dark with it. It made Dean’s stomach turn.

Dean was about to say Cas’ name to try to garner his attention, but Cas beat him to it.

“Dean?”

The voice was Cas’ and Dean couldn’t help it—despite Sam’s warning and everything he knew about the Taker, he felt a small wave of relief.

“Cas?” he replied, stepping down slowly, descending the stairs with caution. “Is that you?”

“Dean, they burned her down here.”

Nails continue to dig into skin and Cas didn’t raise his head.

Dean’s food descended another step. “Who, Cas?”

“A girl. She was burned here…down there. I…I think she was an angel.” Finally, his head lifted and Dean saw Cas’ hand—red and shiny with blood—pointing straight down the center aisle towards the scorch marks on the wall. “They mounted her on a cross and burned her alive.”

The wooden creak of old steps filled the silence following Cas’ flat conjecture. His words, in his very own voice, sounded soft compared to the Taker’s cruel distortion of his voice.

Dean was so close. He slowly lowered himself down a bit and reached forward, hands reaching for Cas’ shoulder.

“Cas, is it you? Uh, you know, right now?”

Castiel turned his head and blue eyes, red and glistening, looked up at Dean. He looked shattered. He slowly turned, his torso twisting to face Dean, his hands shaking as they pressed onto the step behind him for support. “Do you smell that?”

Dean’s eyes scanned Cas’ face, broken about how destroyed he looked and how his handsome face was covered in blood and wounds.

“Smell what?” whispered Dean, eyes locked on Cas’.

“The burning,” Castiel breathed, almost inaudibly. His blue eyes darted across Dean’s features desperately, his chin trembling. A tear slid down his cheek, breaking through blood and grime. “I can smell her flesh melting off her bones, Dean. Her hair, burning, it… it stinks of death. I-I can hear her screaming in my head.”

Sam’s wise warning went unheeded and Dean’s hand slipped off Cas’ shoulder and reached up for his face, thumb sweeping over Cas’ cheek, grazing the corner of his lips. Dean opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but he suddenly realised he had nothing comforting to say. Nothing he would say would be truthful.

It didn’t matter, because Castiel spoke again, his voice small and raspy. His head tilted.

“Are you going to burn me too, Dean?”

The palm wrapped around the handle of the flashlight grew hot and slippery. Dean opened his mouth to say no, but for once, the truth came out by accident.

“I don’t know, Cas.”

Cas head tipped back a bit and he gasped roughly in panic, tears sliding out of the corners of his eyes, slipping over his temples.

“Please, don’t kill me, Dean,” Cas breathed. Hot tears slipped over Dean’s fingers. “I want to live.”

Finally, Sam’s words rung clearly in his head: _Don’t listen to anything he says to you. This is not your Cas._

With that, Dean’s hand slipped off his Cas’ cheek and snapped back to reach for the prepared syringe of ketamine in his shirt pocket, but blue eyes were replaced with white in only a blink and the Taker grinned at him, his own gruesome hand snapping up. It grabbed Dean by the throat, squeezing hard.

“You’re catching on, finally,” the Taker laughed, surging to its feet, his speed and swiftness was frightening. “Castiel isn’t home right now.”

Gasping for breath, Dean’s hand came up to the hand around his throat, trying to pry it off. The hand holding the flashlight was grasped tightly in Cas’ grip after Dean had attempted to bring the heavy metal tool down on Cas’ head.

“No, no, no, Dean,” the Taker cooed, inches from his face. It tilted its head at him, brown hair falling onto its blood-speckled forehead. “Don’t you think you’ve hurt Cassie enough? Look at all the blood on him, thanks to you. When are you going to stop hurting him—”

The deep, echoing hiss from the Taker was cut short when Dean swung out his knee, getting Cas right in the stomach. It was enough to knock the Taker back, the hand around Dean’s neck slipping off and pressing up against Cas’ middle.

Dean wrenched his hand out of Cas’ grip.

“Fuck you,” Dean wheezed as he twisted his body around and scrambled up the stairs. He thought he made it as his hands made contact with the floor above him and he began to haul himself up. Two hands and one knee hit the floor, but just as he went to raise his other leg, he felt a strong, painful grip on his ankle.

Dean cried out as he was forcefully dragged back down into the hatch by a supernatural show of strength. The hatch door slammed closed above him with an echoing crash.

All he saw next was darkness.

All the air was forcefully pushed out of his lungs as Dean was physically twisted and slammed down onto his back on the stairs. The cry falling from his lips came out as a pitiful wheeze.

He felt the old wooden steps break under the weight of his body. His back was wracked in pain, feeling hot. The back of his head was knocked hard against the sharp edge of a wooden step.

Dean moaned as he saw stars.

Against his will, his vision grew dark and blurred. His stomach clenched as he felt a wave of dizziness tingle through him, accompanied quickly by nausea.

Vaguely, he felt that the Taker was on top of him, crawling eerily up his body. He felt hands on him, running up his hips. When he felt his shirt slid up around his waist, the skin on his stomach tightened and formed tiny peaks as goosebumps raised against the cool air.

Though his neck protested, Dean groaned and raised his head, peering down his body. Even though he had faced all manner of horrors through his life, he unashamedly acknowledged the wave of terror that coursed through him as he saw Cas’ face. It appeared from the shadows, twisted, with skin bruised and bloodied, eyes white and lips almost black, a grin plastered on his face that meant nothing but chaos.

Another wave of horror passed through him, making his stomach twist, as Cas lips parted and he dragged his tongue, long and black, over Dean’s bare stomach.

Frantic but dizzy, Dean grappled blindly in the dark for his flashlight, but it had gone out and was nowhere around as far as he could feel.

“Stop,” he rasped, hating the feeling of this monster’s tongue on his skin. It made him want to vomit. He wanted to push the monster away, but his arms felt weak as his dizziness got worse. “Don’t touch me.”

The monster chuckled darkly against his skin. “I can see your perverted, deviant soul, Dean. I know you’ve fantasized about this—having Castiel on top of you, feeling his tongue slide over your skin—” Dean’s heart gave a squeeze, but his lip curled as he stared hatefully at the demented face that tilted at him. “You’re a slut, Dean. I know your desires. I can see into your mind, hear your thoughts, taste the longing in the air. I know how you spread your legs for him in your dreams, take his cock like a little bitch. I’ve seen you imagine him taking you in every room of this bunker. And of you taking him, fast and dirty.” Hot breath puffed against Dean’s stomach as the Taker laughed darkly again, finding corrupt glee when Dean’s breath hitched in his throat. “Where do you think I drew inspiration when I wrapped his legs around my waist and fucked him up against your dresser?”

“Get _off of me!_ ” Dean growled, feeling the spinning slow in his head, feeling the tingling lessen in his back.

He felt a hand around his waist, undoing his pants, sliding the zipper of his jeans down.

In a slow, deliberate whisper, the Taker asked, “Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?”

 

 With grief, Dean recognized the quote from The Witch. He remembered feeling Cas’ gaze in the dark as they watched the movie together, as their fingers had brushed together in the dark. _I love this line,_ Dean recalled telling Cas, wanting to share something he enjoyed with him.

With a wrecked rasped, Dean choked out, “Don’t. _Stop._ ”

Dean gathered strength and swung his hand up to aim a punch at the side of the Taker’s head, but the Taker was faster and swifter, gripping the fist quickly in Cas’ large hand, stopping the blow before it made contact. The fingers of Dean’s hands cracked as they were squeezed tightly and Dean grunted, trying to yank his hand back.

He cried out as the Taker pinned his hand down to the edge of a step and laughed evilly.

“This can be hard or harder, Dean. You make your choice.”

“Why are you doing this?” Dean snarled, fighting against the Taker’s grip. The Taker responded by snatching up Dean’s other wrist and pinning it over his head, causing Dean to cry out as pain radiated from his wrist down his arm.

“I told you, Dean. You are a delicious specimen of mud monkey and I will have you before this is over,” the Taker simpered with delight. “And the way it will break Castiel just _tickles_ me.”

The Taker jerked up so he was face to face with Dean, who grunted and turned his face away, breathing hard and fast from his nose, face twisted in disgust. Dean tried to press himself back against the steps, as far as he could from the cold breath, but it curled down his neck and dry lips brushing against his ear.

“He has pictured you like this, you know. Legs spread and wanton.”

Blood slick hands shifted and Dean found himself with both wrists in one of Cas’ hands, the other creeping down his body, slipping under the band of his briefs.

“The dirty, depraved things that crossed this angel’s mind,” the Taker whispered. Dean’s struggling didn’t faze him one bit. “Even pumped full of grace, with Heaven’s army on his heels, he always found time to think of you, Dean. Kissing you, touching you softly…” the unwelcome hand curled around Dean’s flaccid cock, “... gripping your hair in his fingers and digging his nails into your hips while he plowed into you, wild and hungry.”

“Stop!” Dean puffed out, trying and failing to free himself, anger dissipating into panic. The Taker was pulling his pants off, trying to slide the denim past his hips. His hand was trying to slip further between Dean’s legs, which had Dean’s heart slamming against his chest and sweat gathering at his temples. “Stop. I’ll fucking kill you. Stop. Don’t.”

“Shhh,” the Taker hissed. White eyes blinked and when Dean dared meet its eye, the pupils were blue. “It’s just me. Just Cas.”

The way Dean screamed made the Taker rumble with malicious laughter. Dean’s legs were spread forcefully and no matter how he bucked or struggled against the pincer grip around his wrists, the effort was fruitless. The Taker seemed to get off on it, licking and nipping at Dean’s neck and jaw.

“Keep squirming, Dean. Don’t stop,” it breathed against his face, dragging its black tongue over his cheek. “It’ll make you feel so tight when I fuck you. Castiel is going to love it, he’s been waiting for—”

The Taker’s head snapped up when the hatch door was hoisted open and they were bathed in red light. Dean twisted his head up, his chest swelling as he saw his brother’s silhouette in the doorway.

“ _Sam!_ ”

A moment later, there was a loud bang and a bullet whizzed past his face. The heaviness that pressed on top of him was alleviated when the Taker was thrust back by the force of the shot, the bullet from Sam’s gun embedding itself in Cas’ shoulder.

Cas’ face twisted into a hostile, furious snarl, white eyes swiveled and targeted on Sam. He began to rise to his feet on the stairs.

“Dean!” Sam cried out. “Do it, Dean!”

Finally free, Dean surged up, pulling the ketamine from his shirt pocket and ripped off the cap with his teeth. Above him, Dean heard Sam tug back his gun to prepare the next shot. The distraction was a success; the Taker’s furious white eyes were trained on Sam.

Dean swung his hand back and buried the needle in Cas’ leg, pumping him full of the tranquilizer.

The Taker dropped to his knees on the steps again and yanked Dean’ up by the throat, his hands tightening around Dean’s neck.

“This isn’t over, Dean, because now I’m angry,” he hissed, face twisted in fury.

Dean gasped dreadfully, hand dropping from the syringe to claw at Cas’ wrists.

The Taker trembled, fingers squeezing around Dean’s neck. ”I’m going to kill you and I’m going to kill your brother. But first, I’ll snap every one of his bones until he’s—” Dean felt the grip on his throat loosen and Cas start to sway, “he’s on… on the edge of death. And then… then I’ll fuck you in front of him so he can watch his big brother s-squeal like a pig and… watch blood run down your—”

Dean was dropped abruptly onto the broken stairs, pain blooming across his back. Another bullet was fired into Cas’ shoulder and he was thrown back, tumbling down the stairs. Dean, quick as lightning, yanked up his pants and twisted on the stairs, frantically scrambling up towards the landing.

Unsure of who reached out first, Sam and Dean’s hands outstretched towards each other and Sam grabbed him just in time for top two steps to completely give out under Dean’s feet.

“Sam, help!”

But Sam didn’t need to be told, because he hoisted Dean up, pulling him up onto the floor of the storage room quickly. Still a bit dizzy, Dean grabbed onto Sam’s arms, swallowing down the sick feeling in his stomach and swaying. He felt Sam’s hands on his face and neck, tapping at him.

“Dean? _Dean_? Are you okay?” Sam asked worriedly, eyes wide and brows raised. “Damn it, I knew you shouldn’t have come here alone.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said in a quick release of breath he hasn’t realised he’d been holding. “I’m fine, Sam. Just shook up a bit. I knocked my head pretty hard.”

Sam swallowed hard and looked down the steps, where Cas lay unconscious at the bottom, blood pooling onto the cement floor from his shoulder. Sam turned back to Dean, and patted the side of his face.

“Okay, let’s go. We gotta move before he wakes up. Everything is ready.”

Dean allowed Sam to lead him out of the room by his arm. Dean’s shaking hands yanked his button fly together and pulled up the zipper, unashamed in front of his brother.

“What happened?” Sam asked, but he paled, seeming to know the answer. “Did… Dean, did he—”

“No!’ Dean growled, pressing his hand against the wall of the hallway as they fled. “He tried.. He, uh, he tried, Sam. But I’m good.”

While Sam moved to support Dean again, Dean felt the presence of Sam’s hands hovering behind him as they walked quickly through the hallways, like he was scared Dean would just collapse.

“He had you pinned down, Dean. Are you sure—”

It wasn’t Sam’s fault and Dean shouldn’t have taken it out on his brother, but Dean growled and snapped in response, “Am I sure he didn’t rape me, Sam? Yeah, I’m pretty fucking sure, okay? Can we stop talking about it, please?!”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I just—”

They ascending stairs up towards the main set of hallways and Dean grasped the handrail desperately for support. “Please, Sam. Please. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I don’t want to talk about it. Just give me updates.”

They quickly climbed the stairs and headed towards the war room.

Sam nodded obediently. “Right. Uh, so other than Cas we might have another problem.”

“That’s _great._ ”

“Yeah. I went back to the armoury to get more ammo and when I got there… well, Kevin was gone.”

Dean’s mouth went dry. He actually came to a hard stop just as they reached the kitchen, leaning against a wall. He shut his eyes, his head aching and spinning. Between a head injury, a demon using the love of his life’s body to sexually assault him, and now _this_ , Dean really was going to throw up.

“What do you mean ‘gone’?”

Sam’s eyes were wide and lost looking. He gestured wildly with his hands, one settling on his hip and the other pushing hair behind his ear. “I mean _gone_. There was a pool of blood and fucking _footsteps_ , Dean.”

“Coulda been ours.”

“No,” Sam persisted. “They led out of the second door, the service door. Remember what we told Kevin? ‘Take—”

“—‘the service hallway to 7B’,” Dean finished, reaching up to rub his eyes. “Yeah, I remember.”

Sam ran his hands through his hair nervously. “He couldn’t have lived, Dean. His chest got blown apart.”

The image of Cas standing over the mechanic, licking blood off his fingers, flashed through Dean’s mind. Then another image followed, of Kevin bleeding out on the armoury floor while Cas stood over him and dragged his tongue over the flat side of the machete, swallowing Kevin’s blood.

Dean remembered, his stomach curling into knots, swinging a baseball bat through the rotted spine of the undead mechanic.

He knew what happened to Kevin. He knew why Sam hadn’t found his corpse in the armoury.

Sam exhaled heavily, making a face like he was pained. “I thought he was dead.”

“He is,” Dean replied, standing straight, pushing off the wall. Dean met his brother’s confused hazel eyes, which looked greener today, clearer as they were rimmed in red. Dean realised that Sam probably had slept near as poorly as Dean had. They were all exhausted.

It occurred to Dean that in the chaos of the last few hours, he hadn’t gotten a chance to explain what happened at the auto glass garage except for the fact that Cas had killed people.

“What are you not telling me, Dean?” Sam asked, knowing the guilty look on Dean’s face.

“Uh, right,” Dean started, clearing his throat. He felt around his pockets, looking for his phone. “I told you, Cas murdered some guys, but I kind of forgot to tell you what happened to the guys at the auto glass garage.”

“You told me,” Sam insisted, brows furrowing and head shaking slightly. “You told me one guy’s trachea was ripped out and the others—”

“Heh, yeah…” Dean tapped and swiped at his phone for a moment, then handed it to Sam. He watched Sam stare down in disgust at the picture of the headless, rotted looking old man. “I guess I forgot to tell you he went Night of the Living Dead on me.”

“But…” Sam stared at the phone and Dean noticed with a pang of regret, that his brother’s knuckles went white around the phone. “You’re telling me Cas turns people into zombies?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

Sam’s jaw clenched and his eyes went dark. “Lucifer’s army…remember what Crowley said about how the Taker would twist humans into abominations?”

Dean nodded and pressed gingerly at the back of his head where he felt sore. Sam looked tormented.

“So… Kevin…”

Dean’s heart broke as he watched his brother slowly understand. “Yeah.”

“No,” Sam breathed, pushing the phone back at Dean.

“Kevin, he… he’s around here somewhere, Sam,” Dean explained gently, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his little brother’s shoulder. “I know we have other fish to fry with Kevin walking around in the bunker, but we’ll have to deal with it when we find him.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “If he doesn’t find us first.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “I didn’t think of this before. I…it didn’t occur to me.”

The darkness was fading from Sam’s eyes. He inclined towards Dean and shrugged, pushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “It’s okay, Dean. We had to worry about Cas. We still do. He’s alive and Kevin isn’t. Cas is our focus. We’ll deal with Kevin when we—”

Sam didn’t get to finish his thought because the bunker shook and they were thrown into the walls, grasping for purchase. A hellish roar sounded from beneath them and reverberated in their chests. They could hear stuff falling from the shelves in the library and plates slipping off the counters in the kitchen.

Dean and Sam found each other’s gazes, both wearing twin sets of panicked expressions.

“It’s Cas,” Sam choked out, bracing himself against the wall with a big hand spread over the marble.

Dean clutched his head, wincing against the sound of the roar.

“He’s coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The basement-staircase scene was _classic_ in that movie. It was one of the staple scenes in The Evil Dead (2013). My version has 110% fewer X-ACTO knives, but... still. It would be wrong to write a fic based on this movie and not have some kinda nod to it. I think it was hands down one of the most unnerving scenes in recent horror.
> 
> Thoughts? Opinions? Comment below and let me know. :)
> 
> Please don't forget to leave jdragon122 some serious love. Her art is amazing. <3 (Link to her masterpost: https://jdragon122.tumblr.com/post/178878815880/art-for-dcbb-2018-taker-of-souls-by)


	19. Chapter 19

Sam, Dean, and Crowley winced as they heard the high pitched sounds of glass shattering. The Taker was back at it again—swinging the machete at light bulbs as he passed them, this time quicker and with more vigor. They could feel his rage crackling in the air around them. They could taste the earthy smell of mud and smoke as it thickened and he drew closer.

Crowley stood just outside the doorway to the war room in the library. Even he looked anxious, rolling the box of large matches in his hands.

Dean and Sam stood at the end of the first library table, weapons ready in their hands. Their heads tilted up as the red lockdown lights flickered. The smashing of bulbs grew closer, just outside the kitchen, just outside the war room…

“You ready?” Sam asked.

Dean swallowed a few times, fighting the fluttering panicked feeling in his chest. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He jerked his head at Crowley, who nodded and tugged a match from the box.

They all held their breath as the Taker strode down the steps from the hallway, down into the war room. His machete was in his hand again, the side of the blade tapping against his leg.

The Taker looked furious. His lip was curled back and his white eyes were shadowed by furrowed brows. Nothing about that face looked like Cas anymore. The formerly handsome features were contorted and dark, his skin bloody and veiny, textured and rotted. The only recognizable part of him was the messy head of hair, though the charm was lost as the tips of his brown locks clumped together with blood. The shirt which Dean had found so flattering and beautiful on Cas’ form was caked in gore and shredded where he’d been shot.

The Taker paused to notice the map table pushed on its side, out of the way, but he didn’t seem to care. He turned in the middle of the room and caught sight of the Winchesters. He was visibly shaking with fury.

“This tiresome game is over,” he growled. His voice echoed darkly around the room. Their chests seem to thrum with the raspy rumble of the vocal distortion. “I am bored of this hunt. It ends now. I will collect my final soul and leave this revolting _prison_ that you call home.”

“You don’t leave until we say so,” Dean snarled. He clicked the safety off his gun.

The Taker tilted his head, his neck cracking and popping disgustingly. An animalistic clicking growl accompanied the movement.

That body hardly seemed human anymore.

“Is that so?”

Dean’s facial expression was hard as steel. “Yes.”

Again, everyone found themselves holding their breath as the Taker slowly kneeled on the ground and pressed his palm to the floor.

The two men and their demon exchanged wide-eyed looks, thinking their plan was discovered.

The Taker shut his eyes and fell quiet for a moment, then the ground gave a terrible shudder that had Dean, Sam, and Crowley grasping onto the nearest piece of furniture for support. With a click and a buzz, all the lights came on. The bunker snapped back to life, the walls buzzing with revived electricity. Dean and Sam winced as their eyes adjusted to full light again.

“Enough of the mood lighting,” the Taken sneered, eyelids sliding open. “You were arrogant to think a pitiful human lockdown mechanism was going to keep me in here. I humored your little chase for long enough, but this is over. I will swallow your souls and leave this place to fulfill my prophecy immediately.”

He rose slowly and moved to step forward, but he stood right on their marker. They had to keep him there.

“Crowley, now! Quick!” Sam barked.

Crowley jumped into action. He struck the long match in his hand, tossing it at the floor in the war room with a flourish. The flame caught to the holy oil immediately and spread across the war room at breakneck speed. The Taker rose to his feet gracefully and turned his torso to watch the flame zip across the room, cut in front of the war table, and around the perimeter of the room.

He was locked in. Orange light flickered across his face as he stood in the center of a devil’s trap made of holy oil.

Sam, Dean, and Crowley looked each other with an air of triumph. Dean turned to survey the Taker with a smirk and strode over to the top of the stairs, feet just inches from the edge of the fire. He leaned his gun up on his shoulder.

“Like I said,” Dean taunted, “you don’t leave until we say so.”

“Is that what you think?” The Taker sneered, his features twisted, looking dark and shadowed in the flickering of flames. “You think this ridiculous Key of Solomon will hold The Taker of Souls? You have _minutes_ at best. I am too powerful, too formidable, too ancient for this children’s magic.”

“You seem to be sitting real tight in there,” Sam retorted, stepping forward as well and gesturing towards him with the gun. “Scare of a little angel fire?”

“I have the grace of the Lightbringer inside of me, you fucking idiot!” the Taker snarled, his teeth snapping together like a wild animal. “I will destroy this trap and slaughter you. You and your demon trash.”

After shooting Crowley a hateful look, The Taker grinned at Sam, “You’re going to die. Your crossroads dog will die.” He pointed at Dean with his blade. “And your brother will stay by my side for eternity, Sam. He’ll be my slave, my _whore_ , on his knees where he belongs. You will watch from the pits of Hell, listening to his screams as you hang in your rightful place on the rack.”

“I’m not going to Hell today, Taker,” Sam replied with a smirk, though Dean saw a flicker of fear in his eye.

The Taker saw it too, because he grinned. “Yes, you are, Samuel. You and Castiel will burn in the scorching flames of Hell, consider it a promise. As I wage my war against Heaven, I’ll make sure you are left in the pits, squealing like pigs while the flesh melting off your bones!”

“Enough!’ Dean barked. His face flushed red and grew hot as the Taker cackled. “Cas, you’re in there. Fight him. You did it before, you can do it again. I need to talk to you.”

“Castiel appeared because I _allowed it_ , whore,” the Taker remarked snidely.

“Cas, it’s not true. You fought him before,” Dean pleaded. “Come on, Cas. You can do this. You’re strong. I know you can. I _know_ you. We’re… we’re family. We gotta stick together, so get out here so we can beat this.”

The Taker’s laughter filled the room, sounding so horrible that for a moment Dean considered covering his ears.

“You know him, do you? Touching.” The Taker’s head tilted and his eyes narrowed. “If you knew him so well why did you let this happen, Dean? The warning signs were there, weren’t they? Where were these words of encouragement as Castiel was swallowed by the slithering, twisting shadows of depression?”

Dean heard Crowley hiss at him to do something, that they didn’t have time for this.

“Where were your words about strength and resolve when Castiel fell to humanity? When he learned how to feel and struggled with the burden of guilt and pain? Where were these _‘I know you’_ s when Castiel did not know himself?”

The Taker pressing a hand to Cas’ chest. “Where was ‘family’ when he didn’t understand where he fit, or who he was, or what he was about to become?”

“Don’t listen to him, Dean,” Sam whispered, stepping close to Dean’s ear. But Dean barely heard Sam. His face was strangely blank, his eyes locked on the foreboding figure standing in the center of the flaming devil’s trap.

“Face it, Dean,” the Taker said, “this will be your fault. All these people will die because of you. And you know what I don’t understand? It’s why he still screams for you?”

Dean blinked. “What the hell did you say?”

One of Castiel’s long fingers, dark with dried blood, raised from his side and tapped at Cas’ head. “In here. He stills screams for you. Can you believe it, Dean? What is his _fascination_ with you?” The Taker threw out his arms, shrugging and chuckling with incredulousness. “Can you believe that you were my only reliable way into his heart? Can you believe that? Not Heaven, nor family, nor insanity could steer him to me. It had to be you. It’s always been about you.”

Sam’s hand was tight around Dean’s elbow. The hiss in his ear was close. “Dean, he’s taunting you, buying time because the trap won’t last. _Ignore it._ ”

“Castiel!” Dean yelled, his face contorted in pain and anger, eyes glistening and flickering in the flame light. “We need you to cast him out! Come _on_!”

“No,” the Taker said slowly and deliberately, curving Cas’ lips into an ‘o’ before pressing them together into a slimy smile.

Dean didn’t know what to do now. The Taker seemed in full control. He didn’t know what else to say to try to draw Cas out. He just needed to talk to him.

The angel fire dropped down a few inches and Dean felt the frantic tingling in his stomach that indicated panic.

“Cas, _please_. I have to talk to you.”

“Now he wants to talk, Castiel,” the Taker jeered, eyes twinkling. “Where was this desperate need to communicate when Castiel fell?”

The Taker seemed to stand taller, unbothered by the flames licking at him.

“Dean, the reason I awoke after decades was because this bunker was suddenly filled with pain and screaming from this pure soul. It reached out to me. It was new and fresh and so clean. How isolated he must have felt to be drawn to my book.”

The Taker tilted his head. “I must thank you, Dean.”

Dean swallowed. Then he swallowed again, trying to speak around the lump in his throat. Guilt was sliding into his stomach like a heavy sludge, settling there with a weight like lead. Before he realised what he was saying, brokenly, Dean rasped, “Cas. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley stepped up to the flames, ducked down, and tugged something out of the bottom of his pant leg. Dryly, he said with disdain, “Yeah, I’ve had enough of this.”

There was a bang and a flash of light. Dean and Sam ducked reflexively, shielding their faces.

The Taker released an animalistic snarl like a wounded animal.

Dean and Sam looked around to Crowley in surprise. The demon was smiling, smarmy, holding a small smoking luger in his hand.

“The fuck is that?” Dean yelped, eyes wide as he stared down at the gun in Crowley’s hand.

“That wasn’t Plan B!” Sam screamed at Crowley, a vein popping in his temple. He gestured wildly at the Taker, who looked shocked, staring down at the hand pressed to Castiel’s middle, and watching blood oozing from a bullet wound to his stomach. The machete fell to the floor by the flames with a clang.

Crowley shrugged, waving the gun loftily. “It was Plan C. ‘C’ for ‘Crowley’ or ‘Cut the sappy, useless shite and get on with it’. Much more efficient than Plan A or B. Look, he’s bleeding!”

“You _shot_ me!” the Taker yelled, pulling his hand up to his face, staring at the blood.

Crowley looked pleased. “I absolutely did, love. I figured my angel-killing bullets would be more offensive than these children’s BB guns,” Crowley mocked, gesturing to Dean and Sam’s handguns. He then turned and gestured to the oozing wound in Cas’ stomach. “Smarts a bit, doesn’t it?”

The Taker dropped to his knees, pressing Cas’ hand up to his gushing wound again. With eyes alight with fury, he fixated on Crowley and snarled, “All you’ve done is piss me off, Crowley! This won’t kill me.”

“But you’ll have to fuck off to go heal like a coward, won’t you?” Crowley remarked, his brows raised.

Books flew off the shelves and light bulbs burst as the Taker roared savagely. Dean and Sam ducked, while Crowley brushed away incoming objects with a flick of his hand, looking annoyed.

Sam’s hands pushed Dean to the floor as heavy wooden drawer from a cabinet whizzed past them and nearly took his head off.

When the roar died away, books and other items dropped to the ground abruptly.

Dean’s head snapped up and he immediately found blue eyes staring back at him.

Cas swayed on his knees, hand still on his middle, fresh, thick blood running over his fingers. He inhaled, but it was a long wheezing breath and it sounded painful.

“Cas?” Dean cried out, his voice breaking.

Sam gazed at him too, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Cas, is that you?”

Slowly, Cas nodded. He dropped forward a bit, catching himself with a hand flat on the ground to stop himself from launching face first into the flames. Again, he inhaled with a wheeze, blood dripping from his mouth.

“It’s me,” he choked. “I-It’s me.”

“Cas, oh God—” Sam gasped, eyes darting between him and Dean. “You have to cast him out. It’s the only way. Cas, we know you can do it.”

“I can’t,” Cas gurgled, reaching up to wipe blood from his lips with his sleeve. “I’ve been trying, but I c-can’t. S’too strong.”

“Yes, you can,” Dean insisted. He was yanked back and Dean realised with shock that he’d almost stepped into the flames.

Sam’s hand gripped onto the back of his shirt harder.

Dean fought to get a grip on himself, stepping away from the flames. “You’ve fought against worse. You’re a warrior, Cas. Remember? You used to lead armies into Hell. This Lucifer-wannabe is nothing you haven’t handled before.”

Cas’ eyes looked broken and Dean saw his shoulders hitch. Cas’ fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m… just a man, Dean.”

The flames dropped down another few inches.

“Cas, that’s not true. You are so much more than that. You’re an angel—wings or no wings, grace or no grace.” Dean swallowed hard, his voice desperate. “I’m sorry I made you feel like nothing—I fucked up. Let me fix it…” Dean gestured around to the destruction and fire. “Cas, help us fix this. Cast him out. Send that son of a bitch back to Hell. You’re _Castiel_! Save everyone like you always do! I…we can’t do this without you.”

Cas’ hand pulled away from the wound and looked down at his middle. Blue eyes went wide and he looked up at Dean, panicked. “I’m healed. Y-You have to run.”

“Shoot him again,” Sam whispered hoarsely at Crowley, though he sounded guilty just saying it, his eyes apologetic as they gazed at Cas over the fire.

Crowley looked up at Sam and narrowed his eyes. “The gun has been strapped to my ankle for the whole of my jail sentence here. I hadn’t exactly had a minute to pop out and make more angel bullets, have I? That was my only bullet.”

“Dean, Sam, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. Forgive me,” Cas rasped, his shoulders beginning to shake as the Taker started to re-take control. His eyes squeezed shut tightly as he fought back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry. Dean, I wanted to, to tell you that I—”

Cas fell back on his heels and tilted his head back, sucking in a long, pained gasp that sounded like it was shredding him from the outside-in. He didn’t react when Dean cried out his name. When his head tilted back down, his eyes were white.

The Taker’s face was missing its trademark grin. As he raised himself to his feet, his posture was stiff and his hands were balled into fists. His eyes were locked on Crowley, who took an intimidated step back.

The Taker raised a fist out in front of him and uncurled his fingers. Dean, Sam, and Crowley watched in horror as the flattened palm pushed down towards the floor and the flames lowered inch by inch until they went out with a sizzle and a puff of curly grey smoke.

“Enough of this. I’ve grown weary of these games.”

The Taker’s fingers grasped at the air and pulled back.

Crowley was lifted off his feet and pulled into the devil’s trap, gasping like he was being strangled. Dean and Sam watched in horror as the Taker levitated Crowley across the room towards him and held the struggling demon in the air once he was mere feet away.

“How satisfying it will be to finally squash you like the insect you are, Crowley,” the Taker sneered. “You’re a maggot. A traitor to your kind and you don’t deserve to die like a demon. Your death will be slow, human.”

The fist at the Taker’s side opened and hovered in front of Crowley’s face, then with a slow, smooth gesture, he pulled back. A translucent tendril of red smoke floated out of Crowley’s mouth as he gasped for air. The wispy cloud slithered around the Taker’s hand for a moment, twisting through his fingers, brushing them tenderly like a fond cat to its owner. Then the Taker snapped his fingers and the smoke turned to red sand, dropping heavily through the air, disappearing before it hit the ground.

“There,” the Taker croaked, eyes alight as they watched Crowley gasp and choke. “No demon left in there. Just meat and skin. Disgusting, revolting humanity. Enjoy your slow death, human filth.”

The machete made a sharp tinkling noise as it flew off the ground, and whizzed into the Taker’s palm, handle-first. Fingers curled around the weapon and with a grunt, the Taker swung upwards, burying the blade up through Crowley’s side.

Crowley grappled at Cas’ thin wrists and his slick forearms, a gurgle bubbling in his throat. A flesh tidal wave of blood gushed over Cas’ hand as it curled around the handle.

The Taker grinned and let go of the blade, leaving it impaled in Crowley’s side. Crowley was dropped to the ground like a ragdoll.

His body hit the wooden floor hard.

After licking Crowley’s blood off his palm, the Taker turned to the Winchester boys and flexed his hands at his side.

“Five.”

The Taker walked through the smoking trap towards the boys, stepping over Crowley, who panted hard and writhed, his blood oozing slowing from around the blade.

Dean and Sam began to walk backward and Dean admittedly sucked in an alarmed breath when the back of his legs hit the library table. He grasped at his gun, as did Sam, but as they pointed the weapons at the Taker, who was walking up the steps, breaking the devil’s trap with ease, the weapons were yanked from their hands by an invisible force.

“No more toys,” the Taker ordered. He tilting his head at them.

“He—he can’t be dying!” Sam stammered, staring at Crowley’s wriggling form on the war room floor. “He’s a demon and that’s just a regular blade—”

“Oh, he’s not dead… yet.” The Taker flashed Cas’ white teeth in a gleeful chuckle. “And what did you think you were doing, injecting him with your blood, Sam? You wanted him to _feel_ like a human would? You got what you wished for. Look at how weak and pathetic the demon part of him was at the end.

“And now, he’ll die like a human.” The Taker stopped just a foot from Sam and raised a palm towards him. “Just like you.”

Dean and Sam barely had time to fight back when a set of long, invisible fingers wrapped around their necks and yanked them down to the floor, their knees hitting the hardwood with a pair of thumps.

After mere moments, Dean’s throat was released and he gasped for air. His hands came up to rub at his neck.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” the Taker hissed, and Dean thought he sounded like a snake, his overlapping voices higher, more reptilian.

Quickly, Dean realised that while he was breathing freely, Sam was still gasping for air, his face turning red, the veins in his forehead and neck were bulging as he asphyxiated.

“Stop!” Dean wheezed. “You’ll kill him!”

The Taker’s laughter rumbled. “You’re right. I don’t want to kill him so quickly. I’ve already been down here for days, why not drag out this moment for a bit longer? I’ve earned this.”

With a smooth upward sweeping of his hand, the Taker lifted Sam until the air until the tips of his feet grazed the floor.

Sam barely had time to cry out before the Taker’s other splayed hand raised and he squeezed it closed. Simultaneous to the movement, Sam screamed, writhing in pain, his head thrown back and blood running out of his nose and ears in speeding, winding rivulets.

Dean pushed himself to his feet and moved to lunge at the Taker, but the hand dishing out torture turned on Dean and before he knew what was happening, Dean hit the ground hard on his hands and knees.

He vaguely registered the sound of his own screaming through the blinding, searing pain that shot through his limbs. His nerves were on fire, he felt blind, his bones trembled in agony. His organs were melting, his skin was splitting, all he heard was static, all he knew was pain. He didn’t know who he was, where he was, who was screaming—

Then it stopped and Dean’s eyes snapped open. He was panting, sweating, and shaking. He looked down at the floor and saw his nails were broken and bleeding from scratching into the floorboards. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the floor between his played hands.

Weakly, he raised his head up at the Taker, who still holding Sam up with his powers. Sam looked terrified, his eyes wide and on Dean.

“Dean?! Dean!? Are you okay?”

The Taker smiled down at Dean. “Down, dog. On your hands and knees until it’s your turn. I need to make your brother… cooperative.”

When Sam’s screams filled the room again, Dean released a roar of frustration and he tried to jump to his feet. But horror filled every corner of his heart and panic flooded his body as he realised invisible bonds had his hands and knees attached to the floor.

Despair filled Dean’s heart as he realised they had lost. Sam would die and Dean—he would be this monster’s slave for eternity. Cas would be stuck in that vessel until the Taker tired of him and sent him to hell. Cas would be made to watch the world collapse by his hand. He’d have to watch the Taker do horrific things to Dean, to humanity, to earth. Dean knew it would break him.

“Castiel,” Dean said hoarsely, lifting his head up again. “I’ll be right here. I’ll stay with you until he sends you away. I promise, I won’t leave you. I’ll be right here.”

_“Shut up!”_

Dean’s nerves were set on fire again. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed. Time was a strange concept suddenly, something he didn’t understand. All he knew was pain.

Then it was over and his was head pressed against the floor, his breath hot and damp against his lips as it puffed back up at him from the floor.

Grunting, he pushed himself back up onto his hands.

“I forgive you, Cas,” Dean moaned, tremors wracking his spine as he felt aftershocks of torture. “I forgive you and I—I care about you. You matter. You matter so much to me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. Y-You deserved to hear it every day. I regret everything.” Dean inhaled in a wheezing breath, his throat shredded from screaming. “I didn’t pay enough attention to you and I made fun of things you liked. I could’ve been a better friend. We could’ve been _more_ than friends if I hadn’t been such an idiot. But I’m here for you now—too late, I-I know. But I’m right here—”

Sam stopped screaming and Dean ducked, ready for the excruciating torture that was no doubt turned his way. Instead, there was the heavy thud of Sam’s body being dropped to the floor. Dean’s head snapped up in time to see Sam roll onto his side and moan.

“Sammy?” Dean whispered thinly, watching his brother fail to push himself up and settle for lying on his side. Sam was panting hard, but he was conscious.

Dean looked up at the Taker. His heart slammed into his chest; the Taker was trembling, his fingers flexing, the muscles in his shoulders jumping and twitching.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean whispered, watching the Taker’s eyes flutter violently. “Come on… come on...”

The invisible restraints on his hands and knees lifted off and Dean pushed himself up fast enough to catch Cas as he dropped to his knees, shaking. He wrapped an arm around Cas to steady him.

“I got you,” Dean whispered, running his hand over Cas face, not caring about blood or sweat. He brushed away a tear as it slipped from the corner of Cas’ eye.

Blue eyes flickered across his face, glistening.

“Dean, I’m so sorry that I couldn’t save us,” Castiel whispered, his voice breaking.

Dean trembling hands keep running down Cas’ face. He smiled tightly, hoping to look reassuring, but knowing that likely nothing was ever going to be okay again.

“You don’t apologize,” Dean whispered back, shaking his head.

Cas sniffed and exhaled shakily, more tears falling from the corners of his eyes. “You have to kill me, Dean. You have to. It’s the only way. I can’t be saved but you—”

“No,” Dean moaned. His breath came out in puffs and stuttered inhales.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t kill Cas.

“Yes,” Cas insisted, nodding jerkily. “Crowley c-clings to life, Dean. You have to kill me b-before he dies and his soul belongs to the Taker. If you can kill me before he dies, you’ll be saved.”

“I can’t do it,” Dean choked out, fingers clutching to Cas’ shirt. “I can’t kill you.”

“You can. But Dean, I have to tell you, you have to k-know before—” Cas swallowed thickly. “Dean, I love y—“

The rest of Cas’ words were lost in a choked gargle, when blood tumbled over his bottom lip and over his chin.

Sam screamed _“No!”_ and Dean heard his own voice cry out and sound like it was ripped from him involuntarily. He felt detached from his body, watching through trembling vision, his eyes fixed on the tip of the machete as it pierced through the front of Cas’ throat, then was ripped back, severing muscle and spine on its way out.

“Fine, Plan B,” Crowley croaked from behind Castiel as he wrenched out the blade, the machete swinging down limply to his side.

Dean’s hands pressed against the wound as if that was any help at all. Blood was pouring over his hands and spraying against his chest. Cas was choking and his eyes were wide, his skin - where it was visible through blood - was white.

The whooshing in his ears and trembling of his vision keep him numb. Dean’s glassy green eyes vaguely drifted over to watch as Sam tackled Crowley to the floor and pulled the machete from his hands, throwing it across the room. Crowley went down hard, his face white, lips blue, and bleeding slowly from the stab wound under his ribs.

The hard, abrupt _CLANG_ of the machete hitting the base of the iron stairs shook Dean out of his shock.

“No. No,” Dean mumbled as his senses got thrown into overdrive. “Nonono _no_!”

Cas was falling and Dean gripped his waist tightly, pulling him close, his hand grappling at his neck. But the abhorrent reality was that Cas’ head was attached by mere inches of flesh on either side of his neck. Dean shielded himself from the horror by pulling Cas close, holding his chin against his shoulder, holding him tightly.

Sam dropped down behind Cas, his eyes wide. “Oh my god…oh my god, Dean.”

“What do we do?” Dean whimpered, his teeth chattering in shock, his eyes wide.

Sam was reaching out for Cas, his fingers trembling as they ran over his back. Hazel eyes were anguished and glistening, but Sam inhaled shakily and whispered, “We have to bury him before he heals, before he, it, comes back. Crowley is almost dead, Dean. We gotta bury Cas before Crowley dies or it’s all over. All of this would be for nothing.”

“W-Where?” Dean asked, struggling to keep himself together as Cas gurgled in his ear and his blood ran hot and sticky between them.

“Take him just outside the bunker, Dean. Hurry. I’ll grab a shovel.”

Sam stumbled onto his feet and disappeared.

He went to go get a shovel. To bury Cas.

To bury Cas alive.

A shovel.

Dean was left with Cas. The sounds of choking in his ear almost made Dean drop Cas as he arms went weak and his own breathing went shallow. He felt dizzy. He irrationally considered setting Cas down gently, then crawling under a table to lay down, to just let everything happen and go to sleep. He was tired, so tired, and so broken. He didn’t feel like his heart could handle this anymore. He was about to carry Cas to his death and all he wanted to do was join him.

Despite feeling shattered in every single way, Dean struggled to his feet and hoisted Cas up, one arm around his ribs, the other maneuvering Cas’ legs around his waist. He settled a hand on the back of his jeans and gripped him tightly. Once he had a good grip him, Dean carried Cas across the war room and up the stairs.

Sam made it back in time to yank the doors open for him and follow closely behind. Dean was focused on making it to the next door without falling or having a complete and utter meltdown, but through that he vaguely thought he felt Sam running his hands over Cas’ hair. He heard Sam whispering, “ _It’s okay, Cas. It’s okay_.”

The taste of copper tainted his tongue as Dean bit down hard on his lip.

Sam cut in front of him and pushed open the outside door.

Dean’s legs made it up the steps to the road just in time to give out. His knees sank into the mud and he leaned forward, laying Cas down gently, cradling the back of his head, his stomach churning as he watched the flow of blood slow and the half-way decapitation begin to heal.

Still, it was gruesome and grotesque. Cas’ blue eyes were glistening, glassy with pain. Anyone else would have died but the power of the Taker was keeping him alive to experience this agony. No doubt he was awake because the Taker wanted it so.

Through the numbness, the idea made Dean hot with rage.

Off to the side, Dean heard Sam begin to dig, the metal of the shovel crunching against the weight of dried leaves and dirt. He was thankful his brother was here, doing that, because Dean didn’t think he could. He would be tempted to crawl into the grave himself.

As Cas’ vocal cords healed and the tissue of his trachea and esophagus knitted together, the gurgling turned to pained keening like a wounded animal. The desperate, agonized noises and the afflicted wrenching of Cas’ chest as he gasped for air made Dean feel like might go insane.

“Please stop making those noises,” Dean whispered, panicked, his hands hovering over Cas’ neck and shoulders, not knowing what to do. “What can I do to help you? Tell me.”

One of Cas’ shaking hands came up and took Dean’s wrist, weakly pushing Dean’s hand up against his forehead. At first, Dean didn’t understand. But then, as his fingers brushed against locks of hair that fell onto Cas’ forehead, it was clear.

Dean’s lips twisted, though instead of releasing a sob of despair, he smiled.

With gentle fingers, Dean pushed hair back from Cas’ forehead. He repeated the gesture over and over, fingers sliding up through his hair, twisting pieces out of the way. His other hand came up and pushed hair behind Cas’ ear, thumb and pointer finger combing the hair back softly. The noises of horror lessened in Cas’ throat, fading into pained, scratchy hums.

The neck gore was almost healed.

Dean’s smile trembled. In a whisper that was just for Cas, Dean said, “Hey. You know what you were about to say to me inside? Well,” he smoothed down messy hair at Cas’ temple, “me too, Cas. Okay? I love you too. Always have, always will.”

Then Sam’s hand was on his shoulder.

It was too soon. It was much too soon—he hadn’t had enough time. He hadn’t said what he wanted to say. He hadn’t said any of the right things.

Dean was pulled off of Cas before Sam was dragging Cas away across the dirt. Dean’s hands and torso felt cold where Cas’ body had been held against him moments ago. He sat there, shaking for a moment, and then on trembling limbs, he climbed to his feet and stumbled over to the shallow, shoddy grave that Sam had dug in a rush.

Sam was tying Cas’ hands together. Cas was letting him, though Dean felt freezing waves of panic, his green eyes locked on wide blue ones. The hands that Sam tied together with rope shook violently.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean wheezed, his throat closing up.

Sam’s shoulders heaved and Dean realized he was crying.

“H-He’ll fight back, Dean. When… When…”

_When he starts to suffocate. When we bury him._

“Hurry,” Cas croaked, “I’m… almost… healed.”

He was right. The skin was weaving together now quicker.

“Hurry,” Sam said, his teeth chattering nervously. “Hurry, Dean. Help! The Taker is gonna be back soon. C-Crowley might be dead.”

Cas raised his bound hands to his face, covering his eyes as he was dragged and lowered into the grave.

While Sam initially started throwing dirt on Cas with a shovel, the two of them grew desperate as dark clouds rolled overhead and everything became a horrible shade of grey.

When Cas’ blue eyes rolled back, Dean and Sam started to move desperately, shoving dirt into the grave with their hands, wet mud sliding under their nails and in between their fingers.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he saw less and less of Cas. He turned his face away as he pushed heavy dirt over his face. He hadn’t shut his eyes fast enough to miss the tremble and look of stricken fear in Cas’ eyes. Even with his face turned away, he could still hear Cas’ panicked breathing as he was buried alive, the sound muffled as inches of dirt were piled on top of him.

“Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t...” Cas was whispering like a prayer, and Dean knew it was that survival instinct kicking in, that irrational last-minute regret and panic Cas probably felt even though he knew what had to be done.

When the frightened mantra changed into, “ _Dean, please. Please. Dean. Dean. Dean,_ ” blood washed over Dean’s tongue as he bit hard into his cheek, suppressing a scream of heartbreak.

The frantic breathing and whispering was muffled, then it disappeared completely. Dean kept pushed dirt blindly until Sam’s hands wrapped around his wrists and yanked them up off the ground.

“Dean! Dean, stop. It’s over. That’s enough.”

Dean’s eyes opened and his brother’s wet hazel eyes stared at him, kneeled in front of him, at the foot of Cas’ grave. There was only flat earth where Cas had lain only moments ago, packed flat and heavy, stamped down by dozens of handprints.

“Do you think we did it in time?” Dean whispered, but even to him his voice sounded small and far away, flat and emotionless. His chest was tight and his heart was heavy. His stomach squeezed horribly and his eyes stung. If Sam answered, Dean didn’t hear it.

He stared at the flat piece of earth.

Sam’s arms came around him and even with the side of his face pressed into Sam’s shirt, Dean continued to stare at the patch of dirt.

The patch of dirt got blurry and his face grew hot. He felt his chin tremble and his cheeks get tight. Sam’s arms came around him tighter and Dean registered himself sucking in harsh breaths, and soaking Sam’s shirt with tears. The tears wouldn’t stop and Sam didn’t complain, he just held Dean there and maybe rocked him a bit but Dean couldn’t quite tell. He couldn’t quite tell anything anymore.

He just knew there was a patch of dirt on the side of the road where Cas had been buried alive and left to suffocate.

He stared at the flat piece of earth.

Time was an abstract concept as he stared and stared. Tears ran down his face and soaked Sam’s shirt.

Tears dried on his cheeks as time passed and Dean felt all emotion fade away, leaving him worn and hollow.

He tried to think of something else but all he could do was imagine Cas’ terror and loneliness as his last moments were spent choking on heavy wet mud, his eyes seeing nothing but blackness, his limbs trapped and heavy as they couldn’t move.

All he could think about was how he had killed Cas. He’d let Cas die alone in terror, his body trapped in the dark earth. Cas couldn’t see, couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn’t fight, couldn’t scream.

He stared at the flat piece of earth.

Sam’s arms that held him tightly grew loose. Perhaps he had no strength left in them.

“Do you think we waited long enough?” Sam asked, pulling away. Sam’s face was patchy and shining too. Dean stopped staring at the patch of dirt to notice his brother running his sleeve under his nose and wipe under his eyes with his palm.

If Dean wasn’t in shock and traumatized by the worst night of his life, he might have asked Sam if he was seriously asking him if he thought they’d waited long enough for Cas to suffocate in the mud.

Instead, Dean replied numbly, “Yeah. I think so.”

“Okay,” Sam sniffled, clearing his throat. “Plan D.”

Then he crawled over to Cas’ grave and started clawing at it, digging up Cas’ body.

“What are you…?” Dean choked out, frozen, his eyes wide, his brows furrowed.

“Help me.”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing, Sam!?”

“The Taker doesn’t deserve to live, but Cas doesn’t deserve to die, okay?” Sam panted. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I want to try this before it’s too late. Crowley didn’t think this would work, but I gotta try!”

Dean dragged himself over to the top of the grave, horrified as Sam clawed dirt off Cas’ legs. “No, Sam. Stop. He… he’s dead.”

“We have to try!” Sam snapped, pointing a dirty finger at Dean.

The determined, wild look in Sam’s eye was argument enough, though Dean’s hands trembled in terror as he joined in and pulled dirt off Cas’ chest and shoulders, dreading seeing his dead, gored face.

When most of his body was uncovered, and all but his face was left, Dean’s hands paused and he looked up at Sam.

“What are we doing?”

Ignoring him, Sam scrambled over to the head of the grave and grabbed Cas by the shirt, hoisting him out.

They both made twin noises of shock when dirt tumbled off of Cas’ skin, revealing his face.

It was restored. His skin smooth and clean, his hair no longer dark with blood. There were no bruises, no scars, not a hair out of place or a tear track in sight. He looked beautiful, peaceful. His blue eyes were empty but clear, staring up at the sky, unseeing.

“He was purified,” Sam breathed as he brushed dirt off of Cas’ face.

Dean was frozen, his eyes wide. He felt sick with emotion. Cas looked like himself again. He looked like an angel. He looked like he had never seen a single horror in his life. It ripped Dean apart. Cas had never looked this peaceful when he was alive.

He was snapped out of it when Sam dragged Cas out into the flat ground and laid him down on the road behind the Impala. He rummaged in his pockets for something.

Dean’s mouth went dry as he stared in confusion. He watched Sam puncture the top of a small glass bottle with a needle and tug back, filling the small syringe with clear fluid. Then he set the little bottle down on the ground and injected a vein in Cas’ arm with the fluid. With a shaking hand, Dean picked up the bottle and turned it in his palm, reading the label.

_Epinephrine, 3mg._

“Okay, you breathe for him, I’ll do compressions,” Sam ordered, sliding in the mud a bit before throwing his leg over Cas and getting in position, his hands on Cas’ chest.

“CPR?” Dean asked incredulously.

“JUST DO IT, DEAN!” Sam bellowed, furious. “It’s the only way we have left to bring him back!”

Dean wanted to beg Sam not to do this. If it didn’t work, then he would be crushed. His heart wouldn’t survive, he couldn’t handle any more grief, he was full of it, he was sick of it, he was choking on it.

But Sam was already leaning his entire upper body into compressions, his hair swinging into his face, his eyes determined and desperate. So when Sam counted, “26...27...” Dean gently rested a hand on Cas’ smooth forehead and tilted his head back, guiding his chin up with gentle fingers under his jaw.

“28…29...30!”

Pinching Cas’ nose closed, Dean leaned down quickly and breathed into his mouth. He tilted his head and stared at Cas’ chest, watching for any sign of breathing with hope.

Nothing.

Cas’ chest was still under Sam’s hands. Dean turned his head and leaned in again, repeating the breathing, blowing air into Cas’ lungs for one second.

They repeated the entire cycle three more times.

Every time Dean checked to see if Cas was breathing on his own, the world felt darker and darker. _Why?_ Why had Sam insisted on trying this?

He saw a tear fall from his own face onto Cas’ cheek, rolling into his hair when Dean pulled back from the eighth rescue breath.

This was torture.

“Sam, please,” Dean begged. “It’s not working. I-I can’t do this.”

“16...17...18… I’ll… do this… myself… then… 26...” Sam huffed, jutting his upper body straight down, pushing into Cas’ chest with straight arms.

Three seconds later, Dean was tilting Cas’ head back and lifting his chin, plugging his nose and breathing into his lungs again, his hands shaking. After the second breath, Dean didn’t lift himself up again. He just rested his forehead against Cas’ and shut his eyes so he didn’t have to see his brother get more and more upset as nothing caught on.

He was tired…so tired.

Sam had stopped his compressions and sat back on Cas’ legs, his hands tangled in his hair. Sam’s chest heaved.

Dean pulled himself up just an inch and stared down at Cas.

He looked peaceful. At least… at least he’d gotten to see him like that one more time. With a trembling hand, Dean pushed Cas’ bangs back for the last time, messing up his hair.

Uncaring about Sam, Dean leaned down and pressed his lips to Castiel’s, gentle and brief. When he pulled back, blue eyes were watching him, slightly wide and shining. Cas’ lips parted and a flush was returning to his skin.

He coughed.

Sam inhaled sharply.

Dean froze, his eyes wide, hands trembling.

“ _Cas!?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had considered killing Cas and waiting until the next chapter to bring him back... but I would rather not have a hoard of people throwing tomatoes at me.
> 
> Smack that kudos button if you hate my guts and comment to tell me so. xD


	20. Chapter 20

“Hello, Dean,” Cas croaked, sounding astonished himself. “Am I alive?”

“What a stupid question,” Dean whispered, his voice shaking.

Sam choked, “Dean!” 

Cas chest started to rise and fall quickly. He looked overwhelmed as he stared up at Dean. “I’m alive. How am I alive?”

While Sam rushed over and sliced at the rope around Cas’ hands with a pocket knife, Dean and Cas stared at each other—both struggling with elation, fear, and shock.

As soon as the ropes burst off of Cas’ wrists and Sam sat back on his butt, speechless, Dean leaned down and buried his fingers in Cas’ hair. He grasped desperately at Cas’ face and neck, kissing him feverishly. 

The Taker, and souls, and Hell, and Heaven, and Sam, and every fucking thing that wasn’t Cas completely disappeared. Cas was warm against his skin and, and—fuck, he was kissing back and his long fingers were fisted in Dean’s shirt. No apocalypse mattered, no celestial war, no hell book or possession horror show could make Dean care about anything else.

“Oh my God,” Dean murmured against Cas’ lips before he went back in for more, eyes squeezed tightly. “You’re _alive_.”

“Mhmmn,” Cas nodded, not caring to take a breath. He sat up at the same time Dean slid his hands under the arch of Cas’ back and lifted him up into a seated position. They broke their kiss, foreheads pressed and noses bumping.

“I love you,” Dean mumbled.“I’m sorry I never said it before. I’ve felt it for years. I-I didn’t think you’d want it. You were this celestial wavelength of angel and I was just some stupid guy with a drinking problem and all this baggage. I thought there were bigger things to deal with, I didn’t want to distract you. I didn’t wanna distract _me_ , but that’s bullshit, isn’t it? I was just a coward and kind of scared and just _stupid_ , Cas. Fuck, I’m sorry I’m such an asshole sometimes, I don’t know why I’m like this. I-I’m just rambling, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. I love you. Shut me up—”

Cas shut him up with a kiss that was too firm and kind of hurt but Dean got it—he understood the desperation. They never thought they’d see each other again. They hadn’t thought they’d get another chance, a do-over.

Cas was pulling himself closer, wrapping arms around Dean’s neck. Without breaking their desperate kiss, he clumsily twisted his body and he scrambled closer to Dean. 

Dean’s thumb was hooking into the back of Cas’ jeans, yanking him onto his lap. Cas’ thighs shook as they squeezed his hips. It hurt Dean’s knees to have Cas’ weight on him but who had time to care—

“You guys…” Sam’s voice broke their embrace. His voice was weak and a bit airy. When Cas and Dean looked over, he looked shocked, his face a bit pale, and his eyes were a bit wide. He was getting to his feet. “I’m _right here_.”

“ _Sam,_ ” Cas breathed, climbing off of Dean and scrambling to his feet. He hadn’t taken more than two steps before Sam met him halfway, and they engulfed each other in a substantial embrace.

“I don’t have a sappy love confession,” Sam laughed into Cas’ hair, squeezing his friend tightly. He didn’t look even remotely ready to let go, and neither was Cas. “I’m just so happy that worked. God, Cas. I’m so sorry you went through that. I’m so sorry I tied you up. But it’s over now. It’s over—”

“Guys.”

“This week has been _awful_ ,” Cas mumbled into Sam’s shirt.

Sam laughed thinly. “I bet, buddy.”

“ _Guys_.”

When Sam and Cas broke apart, they didn’t expect to see Dean staring at his hand, his face drained of colour.

Sam frowned at his brother, taking a cautious step towards him. “What?”

Dean’s hand turned. A dribble of blood ran down his palm.

Sam and Cas froze. They stared at it. Castiel jumped a bit when a heavy raindrop hit his cheek. Dean’s eyes widened and his lips parted slightly, horror painting his features as more raindrops dripped across their faces.

“No…”

The three of them looked up. Clouds, thick and dark, twisted across the sky, painting the world in a horrible crimson shadow. Blood fell from the heavens, pattering down onto the concrete road gently at first.

Then a crash of thunder unleashed a torrent of red.

“We were too late,” gasped Sam, staring at his hands and arms as blood rained down on them, dotting his clothing grotesquely.

“No,” Cas moaned, blue eyes wide and frightened as he watched small red streaks paint Dean’s face. “This can’t be. I died. This was supposed to end.”

“We gotta go.” Dean scrambled to his feet and patted his pockets. “We can’t stay here. Get to the car!”

Sam lurched towards the Impala, scrambling to wrench open the passenger seat door while Dean swept past Cas, taking his hand and pulling him towards the other side of the car. They barely made it to the back tail light before they were thrown to the ground as the earth quaked, shuddering violently under their feet. 

Sam slipped and landed hard on his back.

Dean opened his mouth to ask Sam if he was all right, but instead, he cried out as the bunker doors burst open with aggression like a bomb had gone off inside.

Dean felt panicked and his immediate instinct was to grab Cas—he couldn’t lose him again—and shield him, but the action was aborted as they both slammed their hands to their ears and gasped in pain. A roar that nearly erupted their eardrums exploded from the doorway of the bunker.

Emerging from within, Kevin dragged his feet up the stairs, his face twisted darkly, his shredded chest heaving. His skin was rotted and molted, and dark veining twisted over his hands and arms and curled up his jaw. Black bruised his lips and his lash line, circling his white eyes.

In one hand, he twisted the handle of the chipped machete manically. In his other hand, he held Crowley’s severed head by his hair.

The Taker grinned and tossed the head aside. Crowley’s head rolled into the street.

“The prophecy has been fulfilled. The Taker of Souls has risen,” the Taker croaked. At his full power, the Taker sounded nothing like Kevin. His voice was pure hell, entirely evil, and monstrous. It wasn’t human in any capacity and it had all three men frozen in bone-chilling terror.

Though that didn’t last long. Dean was jolted out of his panic by Cas, who struggled to stand and yanked at Dean’s hand, pulling him to his feet.

“Get up!” Cas yelled, eyes on the Taker. ”We have to go!”

The Taker’s neck twisted towards them, the growl and clicking predatory noise echoing over even the thunderous pattering of crimson drumming down onto the pavement.

“You are not going anywhere.”

The Taker’s raised Kevin’s hand, fingers spread wide, and targeted Dean. With a rapid pulse of the Taker’s fingers, Dean was on his knees, screaming. 

His hands came up to his ears as they rung. His entire body felt like it was on fire again, his nerves snapping, his blood boiling in his veins. The pain would never end, it was all he knew, it was all he was.

Gun shots. Two of them. Three. Four.

Dean’s eyes, which had rolled into the back of his head, refocused just in time for him to see the Taker turn on Sam, striding towards him with his hand outstretched. His other hand was hanging by a tendon, blasted off by four well-aimed bullets, swinging grotesquely at his side. The half-removed hand still clung to the machete.

“No!” Dean heard himself yell hoarsely, his vocal cords torn.

Sam fired another shot at the Taker, hitting him square in the tendon. The hand dropped to the ground, the machete splashing down into a slowly-deepening river of blood.

“That’s not very nice, Sam!” The Taker snarled like a savage wolf, his teeth snapping together. “Let’s see how you like it?”

The palm outstretched twisted and Dean screamed with Sam as Sam’s hand was twisted 360 degrees around. Throwing his head back in agony, Sam shrieked and pulled his arm towards himself. He rolling onto his side in the mud. Bone punctured his twisted skin, the spray of blood almost unnoticeable in the downpour.

The Taker’s laughter was mad, ringing through the service road sharply, echoing through the trees. Dean watched him raise his hand again and cackle, “Let’s have them match, what do you say, Sammy?”

The fingers began to twist again. Sam’s screams barely had a chance to start up and Cas just managed to yell after him (“Dean!”) before Dean charged into Kevin, knocking them both to the ground. 

Sam gasped horribly in the mud, gripping his arm against his chest.

Dean and the Taker grappled in the mud for only moments. As determined as Dean was, he was no match for the fully-restored Taker, who had Dean pinned in the dirt within seconds, his hands bound over his head by dark, slithering roots that had burst from the bloody earth. 

The Taker tilted his head back and cackled darkly.

“Here we find ourselves again, Dean! It was destiny, wasn’t it? For you and I to be here? For you to meet your sticky little end with me here, in the mud. Who knew? I thought it would be you and I forever, Dean. But you know, I’ve had some time to think and… I don’t know if it’s going to work out between us.” He leaned down and wrapped his grotesque, rotted fingers around Dean’s throat. They squeezed hard and Dean gasped hoarsely, his feet slipping in the mud as he tried pitifully to struggle. He felt more roots push out of the earth and wind around his ankles.

The Taker’s spine curved gruesomely as he leaned over Dean. With a hiss like a snake, he whispered, “I think I’ll keep Castiel around instead. He’s all pretty and brand new thanks to you and your brother. Oh, the ways I’m going to defile him…”

“Think again.”

The Taker snapped its face around, swing out its arm, fingers splayed and palm flat, only moments from turning its torture on Castiel, who stood behind him.

The hand dropped to the ground after Cas swung the machete down through the air, severing it abruptly. Blood shot out of the end of the stump and the Taker shrieked. 

“The Taker has risen, Castiel! It was fate! It was prophecy!” the Taker snarled.

Cas twirled the blade in his hand. Through his teeth, he sneered, “Fuck prophecy.”

The Taker’s mouth opened impossibly wide and he roared, twisting up like a snake, pushing off of Dean, curling around to lunge at Cas. 

With no fear and no hesitation, and with the conviction and hatred of someone who had suffered too much for too long, Cas buried the wide, broken blade into the Taker’s chest. With a snarl of rage, he gripped the machete handle with both hands and drove it up, cutting up through its neck. 

Dean was immediately free as the roots shuddered and slid back into the ground. He had two seconds to roll out of the way before the Taker was kicked in the stomach and fell back, slamming into the ground where Dean had lain only moments ago with a violent splatter of blood and mud.

Cas barely registered the crashing of thunder and the flash of lightning above them. Dean watched in awe and a sick fascination as Cas wrenched the blade from the Taker’s throat, effectively slicing the vessel in two. He barely missed a beat before swinging the blade back again, coming down over and over again on the Taker’s head, hacking and stabbing and slashing. 

The monster didn’t have a chance to fight back, not that it could, with a head that was barely on and just missing chunks in general.

“Fuck-you-” Cas said through gritted teeth, punctuating every word with an aggressive stab or slash, “burn-in-Hell-you-mother-fu—”

“Cas!”

Castiel ignored Sam’s attempt to get his attention. He climbed on top of Kevin’s body and hacked at the Taker’s neck, severing it completely. Lightning flashed across the sky, momentarily casting them in electric red light. 

“Dude!” Dean cried.

Cas was poised to begin stabbing again, but Dean curled his arms under Cas’ and dragged him away, careful to avoid the flailing machete.

“Cas, it’s dead, man! Stop!”

Castiel responded by kicking the Taker’s head petulantly. It detached completely from its body and rolled into the grave Sam and Dean had meant for Cas. Cas kicked out again, getting the headless body right in the ribs.

“Dude, stop!” Dean yelled out, but hell, if there wasn’t a proud laugh in his voice, despite the macabre situation. “It’s dead. It is _so_ dead.”

The rain abruptly lessened. 

Sam had pushed himself up into a seated position using his good arm, resting back against the Impala, his arm held against his chest. He was clearly in agony, but he watched Cas throw his well-deserved tantrum with an air of pride and amusement.

Cas dropped the machete like he only just realised it was disgusting. Dean sat in the mud behind Cas and winded his arms around Cas’ chest, pulling him close so that Cas’s back was flush to him and he could bury his face in his neck.

“You did so good, Cas. You did it,” Dean reassured, swaying a bit. “You saved us. Again.”

In his arms, Cas’ shoulders shook and he thought maybe he was having a nervous laugh, but quickly, when Cas’ hands came up to his mouth, he realised he was upset, sniffing and crying into his hands.

“It’s over, Cas. It’s over,” Dean whispered, fingers digging into Cas’ shirt. Cas had gone through so much in the past few hours that he rightfully deserved to feel upset. “You’re okay now.”

“No,” Cas moaned. “ _Kevin_.”

The last bits of blood-rain dropped down, pocking the thin surface of blood that puddled in the grooves of the roadside and in between dead leaves.

The three men gazed brokenly at Kevin’s body mutilated body. It lay unmoving, drenched in blood, gored and nearly unrecognizable, half-sunken into the crimson mud.

“We’ll… we’ll clean him up, Cas,” Sam sniffed, running his one good hand under his eyes and over his mouth, his chin trembling. 

“We can’t just leave him here,” Cas rasped. 

Dean found his hand and intertwined their fingers. 

“We won’t, Cas. He’ll have a hunter’s funeral.”

Dean nuzzled his face against the side of Cas’ and he felt Cas’ hands slip down to cover his. They sat there quietly for a second, solemnly staring at Kevin’s body. 

“Good,” Castiel whispered. “He deserves nothing less.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? 
> 
> How was it? Do you hate me yet? Or have I redeemed myself to y'all by having Cas get his revenge? Honestly, I kind of high fived myself after giving Cas the opportunity to petulantly kick the Taker in the head. 
> 
> The blood-rain scene was one of my other favourite scenes in the 2013 movie. It was so satisfying for Mia to finally murder the Big Bad, and the scene in all red, I thought, would be a good wrap up for this fic too.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the bloodbath that has been the past 20 chapters. You made it! Now click into the final chapter and enjoy the comfort portion of this hurt/comfort fic. You earned it.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, y'all. This is the last chapter. Thank you for sticking with it. You're the wind beneath my wings.
> 
> Now please accept 10k of smut in exchange for all the heartache I caused.

Coming home should have felt elating and comforting, but the sound of Castiel’s feet crunching over broken glass and the hollow sound of wooden chair legs rolling across the floor made the bunker seem empty and too big. 

Castiel stood at the top of the stairs in the library, looking around at the destruction with a solemn look on his face. After helping a loopy Sam to bed—he’d been given strong pain killers for his hand at the hospital, Dean returned to the war room and stopped beside Cas, their shoulders brushing. Dean’s swallows were loud in the pure silence around them. 

They stood in front of a sickening large and drying pool of blood. Crowley’s body parts were scattered around the war room. The Taker had clearly gone to town with his revenge.

Even though Crowley had been their enemy for the better part of their relationship, he had—in the end—been their ally. Beheading or not, even if he hadn’t meant to, he’d saved Castiel’s life. He’d saved all of their lives. The world owed him a great debt.

Dean and Cas looked away from Crowley’s limbs at the same time and returned their gazes around the room. Dean looked grim while Castiel looked lost.

“I guess we should start cleaning this up,” Dean murmured, gently kicking a piece of lamp across the floor. 

A lock of Castiel’s messy brown hair fell onto his forehead as he nodded. But he didn’t move. Neither did Dean. They both continued to survey the chaos, fingers curled into fists at their sides, memories of what happened in the bunker over the past night clouding their thoughts.

“Where do we even start?” asked Castiel, lost.

The reply was low and hopeless. “I have no idea.” 

But despite this, Dean moved into the room, pushing through debris with a sliding stride instead of stepping on rubble. He began picking up smaller pieces of table and chunks of larger books..

“How do I even begin to repair the damage I’ve caused?” 

“These are just _things,_ Cas.” Dean said without looking back. “They can be replaced.” 

“I mean damage I’ve caused to you.”

Midway through tossing the ruined furniture into a pile, Dean stopped and set the pieces down, turning back to face Cas, who looked like the dizzying, whirling emotions coursing through him were plaguing his mind and paralyzing his limbs. Blue eyes stared down at the blood in front of him, far away and glazed over. He looked tortured. 

He jumped a bit when Dean was at his side again, a hand around his elbow. 

“Are you serious?” Dean whispered, shaking his head, his green eyes were bright and gleaming. “Cas. Hey, Cas, you... you know I’ll be okay, right? I mean, you must mean ‘the damage’ it caused _everyone._ You, me. Us.”

Dean could see Castiel look unsteady, looking away, his eyes taking on that far away quality again. With a hoarse whisper, Cas ranted, “I killed Kevin. I hurt Sam. The things it said to you, Dean… I wish I could take them all back. I wish I could take back every hurtful thing that was said to you so that you would never have to feel that pain. All of this…everything that happened here? I wish it had never happened to you.” 

Castiel finally turned to look at Dean. They held each other’s gazes, each reflecting the same tumultuous roiling of emotions—pain, guilt, shame, confusion, and raging, passionate love.

“What happened to _me_?” Dean breathed, gripping Castiel’s arm harder, stepping into his space, and shaking his head. Their faces were so close Dean could feel Cas’ nervous, shallow breathing against his wrist after he raised his other hand to rest of the side of Cas’ neck, fingers curling up into the locks of hair curled behind Cas’ ear. 

“Cas, what happened to _me?_ I mean, even before everything with the book, I neglected you. I knew you were having a rough time and I still couldn’t manage to be supportive, to be your friend. I knew how you felt about me and I couldn’t act on it because I was a fucking coward, Cas.” A traitorous tear dripped onto his cheek, tumbling down ruggedly, curling around his nose and running over his lips. “I’ve been in love with you for years and I couldn’t muster up the courage to tell you when you needed it the most. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done to someone and I feel twisted about it, Cas.” 

Castiel was getting emotional too, his nostrils flaring a bit as he visibly tried to hold back tears. 

Dean felt dizzy, upset that he was hurting Cas more, but he couldn’t shut up. Confessions poured out of his lips quickly, without a chance for him to push them back down. “And then…then with the book. The thing. The Taker told me what he did to you… _how_ he did things to you. Fuck, Cas. He wore my _face_ and touched you with my hands. I don’t even know how you can stand to look at me. I don’t know how the very sight of me doesn’t make you want to run away and never look back. I—oh, fuck.”

Dean pulled his hands back from Cas’ arm and neck, stepping out of his personal space. His eyes were wide like saucers and glistening. Castiel stepped back too, his own hand reaching up to grip at his arm where Dean had grabbed him. 

“God, I—Cas, I’m so sorry,” Dean breathed, watching Cas rub at the spot on his arm. “I…it told me what it did to you in the forest and…and here I am just grabbing you like that. Fuck, I’m so sorry. I won’t touch you. I promise.”

“How could you say that to me?”

Dean blinked, confused by Castiel’s question and the pain in his voice. When he met his gaze, Cas was staring at him with a stare that nearly made Dean stumble back. 

“All I ever want you to do is touch me,” Castiel continued, shaking his head, his eyes looking like the crashing sea, his brow furrowed heavily, the crow’s feet around his eyes deep as he stared at Dean. “I’m…fearful, yes. I admit I fear being touched but I know that’s what the Taker would have wanted.” Castiel swallowed hard, licking his lips. “And I’m not going to let it take anything more from me.

“And it’s you.” Resolute blue eyes stared at him steadily, bestowing Dean with a confidence that he desperately believed he didn’t deserve. “You wouldn’t hurt me, Dean. Not when a monster inside me was trying to kill you, when it went after your family and your friends. You refused to hurt me. Stupidly, albeit, but you refused to hurt me—”

“That’s not true,” Dean argued in a breath that was wrenched from his chest. “Not near the end…I hit you. In the bathroom, I hit you so many times—”

“Not me,” Castiel replied simply with a shrug of his shoulders. The little movement was so full of forgiveness Dean felt like screaming. “Your blows were for the Taker. I knew it then and I know it now, with full conviction.” 

Dean opened his mouth to argue. Castiel silenced him with another declaration of trust, so honest and sincere, Dean couldn’t fight it. 

“I don’t believe a touch from you would ever again be to purposely to hurt me.” And then Castiel’s hands hesitantly reached forward and gently tugged on Dean’s wrists. He brought Dean’s hand back up to his neck. Dean’s fingers pressed against him warm skin there and even though he’d sworn not to touch Cas ever again, Dean stepped closer, their bodies inches from melting together.

Their faces were moments apart, their eyes searching. Castiel was visibly uneasy, but his lips were pressed into a firm line, his eyes unflinching as they beheld the face of the man he loved. 

Dean looked across the space between them, unsure yet desperate to express just exactly how he felt to the one person he could never bear to lose again.

“Castiel, I love you,” Dean confessed, saying every word with a truth he’d never been able to express before. The words were rough, torn from him, pulled up from the pit of his stomach where they had shriveled in the dark, now unfurled like a dead flower blossoming back to life. They’d been sitting inside him for years and God, were they beautiful now out in the open. 

Cas’ lips, which pressed together tightly, trembled for a second, but he nodded quickly. He looked like he might’ve been thinking of saying something, but Dean wasn’t done.

“I have never felt this way about anyone before, Cas. It sounds so fucking cliche and I hate myself for not thinking of something more wonderful and deserving to say to you,” Dean stepped closer and raised his other hand to rest on Cas’ face, his thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I’m pissed that there aren’t better words for how I feel about you. I don’t deserve you, Cas. I’m so fucking sorry that I waited this long to let you know how wanted you are and how I think the sun shines out of your ass.”

He was shaking his head. “I was scared and stupid and I was too busy caring what people would think or say, and I was too busy telling myself that caring about you like that would distract me from ‘the mission’—whatever that means.” 

Dean’s lips began to tremble when Cas’ hands curled around the hand he had on his neck. He brought Dean’s palm up to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to the skin there, eyes never breaking Dean’s gaze. 

A breath hitched in Dean’s throat. Never in Dean’s long painful life had he ever felt more undeserving of something so overwhelmingly beautiful and pure.

“I love your vessel,” Dean whispered. 

Cas stilled, his lips pressed against Dean’s palm, his face frozen except for his eyes which stirred and lustered and looked so damn vulnerable in the dim light of the library. 

“No, your _body_ ,” Dean corrected. “I know you think I’d like you better if you were a woman. But it wouldn’t be you, Cas. This face and those lips and the freckles on your back and that ass that makes me want to cry because it’s so perfect?” 

Dean laughed. “Yeah, that’s all you. I believe with every bit of stubbornness that I have inside me that if you fell with the other angels, your grace would’ve manifested into the big blue eyes, and the five o’clock shadow, and messy sex hair that I’m looking at right now.”

Finally Cas’ lips parted and he spoke. The words came out in a whisper.

“You are nothing like him. He was nothing like you.” Castiel shook his head. “I feel so stupid now. I should have known it wasn’t you.”

Cas lifted his hand and slid his palm over Dean’s blood-caked shirt, sitting faintly against his chest. 

Dean became worried that he might feel the way his heart pounded, fast and frightened.

“You’re still covered in blood,” Castiel murmured, eyes flickering down to the dark stains in Dean’s clothing. 

Dean looked down at his chest and nodded. 

Castiel seemed to be thinking hard as he stared at the red and brown spots that were in varying degrees of drying. 

“Dean, will you come with me?”

The question of where or when or why never even occurred to Dean to ask. He merely nodded and Cas took his hand, leading him out of the library, away from the carnage and blood and chaos. 

Cas led him through the corridors, some dim, others completely black, careful to avoid trails of bloody footprints and shattered light bulbs that littered the floor. 

Dean was led through a steel door and into the bathroom. He looked around, confused.

Cas turned around and took Dean’s other hand in his own. 

“I figured out where to start,” Castiel said quietly. “I figured out where to start to repair the damage.”

“Why are we in here?” Dean finally asked, his green eyes nervous and suddenly shy as he looked around the room, noting the filth in the sink and the destroyed row of lockers, the last one still gaping, its door swung all the way open. 

“I… I want to try something. Because I’m uneasy about being close to you,” Castiel admitted, flinching a bit. Dean’s heart sank. “I know you did nothing to me and I understand it seems stupid but…”

“Whatever you want, Cas,” Dean whispered, nodding, hoping that his pain wasn’t obvious on his face. This wasn’t about him and his pain, it was about Cas.

“I want to touch you,” Castiel said bluntly, and added, “If you would allow me to. I think it would help if… if I could just touch you. The control might help.” 

“Cas.” Dean’s voice caught in this throat for a moment, then he cleared it and he urged firmly, “We can take it slow. The _touching_ … it can wait. I can wait.”

Cas’ head tilted a bit, one brow raising just a bit. “That’s not what I mean. I don’t mean sex, Dean.”

Of course Castiel would just come out and say it. Dean huffed out a small laugh and let his head hang a bit, staring at their fingers intertwined between them. Their fingers looked beautiful knitted together like that. His skin buzzed where Cas’ fingers curled around his own.

Castiel proceeded with a firmer tone, sounding like he needed Dean to understand. “I want to start over. No blood, no carnage. Just you as you are. And… me, as I am now.” His eyes dipped for a second, unguarded and honest. “Human. My… body.” 

“Just you as you are,” Dean murmured. “Cas.”

Castiel’s lip twitched. “Just Cas.”

“Okay, Just Cas,” Dean murmured, a smile tugging on the corner of his lip. “You can touch me all you want. Whatever you need.”

Running his hand over his wet hair, purposefully trying to avoid walking on dried bloody footprints, deciding that was an issue to deal with tomorrow, Dean crossed the short distance to Cas’ room from his own.

“Cas?” Dean asked from the doorway of Cas’ room, feeling silly and nervous and buzzing with anticipation all at the same time. He stood there, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, bare feet frozen against the cold hard floor as they poked out from under the legs of his loose plaid pyjama pants.

Cas looked up at him from his perch on the end of the bed. He finished rubbing at his wet hair with a towel, the brown hair already beginning to dry on the tips, curling a bit by his ears. The top was messy, locks flipping up then flopping down here and there. Dean’s heart hammered against his chest, overwhelmed by how stunning Cas looked. 

It was so good— _so good_ to see Cas look like himself again. He didn’t look sick and his eyes weren’t feverish. His skin wasn’t pale and waxy. There wasn’t a buzz of nervous energy around him or the lurking uneasiness that had trailed behind him for weeks as the Taker effectively made him lose his mind. Cas’ hair was clean and his skin was full of colour. If he weren’t sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed, wearing a t-shirt and loose sweatpants, drying his hair, Dean would’ve thought he looked like he’d gotten his grace back. He looked like an angel.

“You look good, Cas.” 

Blue eyes—fuck, they were stunning—lit up for the first time in…well, truthfully, months. Cas hadn’t looked happy in months. Dean’s heart shuddered fondly as Cas’ lips parted and he smiled with the tiniest flash of teeth. It was so sincere and so delightfully _Cas_ that Dean rested his hand on the doorframe, his knees weak. 

“Thank you,” Cas replied quietly, lowering the towel into his lap, where his hands rested moments later. 

Dean tugged a hand out from his pockets and pointed into the room. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Cas murmured, sliding a leg off his bed, folding the towel and setting it on the floor. He made room on the bed, gesturing for Dean to sit on the other side of the bed.

“It’s weird; I’m kind of nervous,” Dean admitted, laughing under his breath as walked around the queen sized bed and sat down on the opposite edge, facing Cas and the doorway, his back to the headboard. He fiddled with the hem of his pyjamas, staring at Castiel, who tilted his head at him, his eyes soft.

“Me too,” Castiel admitted, shrugging a bit, pressing his lips together as they curled up in the corner. “Being alone with you on this bed…”

The sweet, nervous butterflies in Dean’s stomach all dropped dead, a sick feeling in his chest spreading as he realised what Cas meant. 

“He…” Dean swallowed when his voice nearly cut out. He pointed down towards the bed, dreading the answer but asking anyway. “Did he—what he said… Here?”

Castiel looked like he was struggling for words too. His tongue swept over his lips.

But unlike Dean, who struggled and didn’t manage to say much of anything, Castiel opened his mouth and said bluntly, “He had sex with me here, if that’s what you mean. When I thought it was you.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open. Fuck. He felt sick. Cas had just come out and said it. Dean didn’t know why he was surprised; Cas had never been one for subtlety and he didn’t shy away from hard truths. Still, it hurt to hear. It really fucking hurt. Not because he was jealous or that he was upset that Cas had technically had sex with someone else, but because Cas had given himself to Dean only to find out it wasn’t him at all. What Cas went through… it was unimaginable. 

“I want a better memory to replace that one. I want a real memory with you,” Castiel spoke, breaking Dean out of his reverie. Blue eyes surveyed him, kind of wide and brilliant in the dim lamplight. They were both very quiet for a long, stretched out moment, gazing at each other, both acknowledging the world of pain that they’d gone through. 

“Can… can I touch you now?” Castiel asked, pulling his foot back onto the bed, crossing them once more. They faced each other and Dean felt tremendously nervous. 

Despite himself, he laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “No one has ever really, uh, just touched me for no reason, you know? I don’t know what to expect.”

“Expect nothing.” Castiel shifted, sitting on his heels. “I need this, Dean. The Taker took something from me that I desperately want back.”

The faint buzz from Cas’ bedside lamps seemed loud between them in the silence. They stared at each other, both with different types of fire in their eyes. Cas looked determined, while Dean was overwhelmed with the attention on his face, yet still confused, unsure of what Cas was trying to explain to him.

“I have these memories of being with you, of having your hands on my skin, and none of it was real.” Cas swallowed, staring hard down at the bed, head shaking almost imperceptibly. “I always wanted to be close to you, to touch you and to know what it felt like to be wanted by you, and he _took that from me._ ” Cas looked up at Dean, eyes fiery. “I want that control back. I want real memories that I chose to make. Ones that I have never made before. And that’s where I can fix the, the way _I feel_ ; I never touched him, he only touched me. He only took what he wanted from me.”

The breath in his lungs was stolen from him, suddenly absent. 

“Touch me, Cas,” he whispered sincerely. “I want you to.”

It was true. When he said it, he felt deep in the farthest, darkest corners of his heart that it was true. 

Feeling the most vulnerable he’d felt in years, Dean sat completely still, watching Cas slide closer. Green eyes didn’t falter in their wondering gaze as Cas slowly raised his hands and ran his fingertips over Dean’s face.

The angel from the barn, from September 18th 2008, was suddenly in front of him, eyes the most electric shade of blue, all curiosity and intensity, his head tilted. Except this time he had a lovely human flush in his skin and towel-dried hair that was fluffy and sexy at the same time. The angel wore a white t-shirt and dark blue pyjama pants with no socks on instead of a trenchcoat and a suit. 

And he wasn’t really an angel anymore, but he was human and he was Dean’s, _finally._ And Dean was his, too. 

Cas’s fingers dragged through his hair, gently tugging at his dirty blonde locks of hair—hair that was kind of floppy and fluffy because it was freshly washed and had no product in it. 

Dean watched Cas’ eyes as he brushed Dean’s hair from his forehead and took his time feeling the hair between his fingers and under his palm. If it wasn’t such a surreal, strangely romantic experience, the feeling of Cas playing with his hair might have lulled him to sleep. But the fingers moved down, brushing over the contours of his face—gentle over his bruised nose, under his eyes, over his brows, down his temple, over his lips…there was nothing sleep-inducing about it. Dean’s skin felt like it tingled, like Cas’ fingers left trails of electricity.

As Cas’ fingers danced _ever so softly_ over the shell of his ears, Dean realised he was swaying just a bit, his body buzzing. 

He dragged open his eyes and realised how entranced he’d been, following just the sensation of Cas’ hands on him. Blue eyes, big and wide with curiosity were actually watching Dean’s face, despite the fact that Cas’ strong hands were elsewhere, now rested flat on Dean’s chest now. 

“How’s it going?” Dean asked. To his contentment, he was rewarded with a little noise of happiness and a smile. 

“I enjoy seeing you relaxed,” Cas revealed, one of his hands lifting off of Dean. The small smile faded but the bright twinkle in Cas’ eye didn’t. With a soft, but firm tone, Castiel ordered, “Shut your eyes again.”

Obediently, Dean’s heavy lids slid closed and he exhaled slowly through his mouth, both easing into the relaxing sensations and also feeling the exhilaration as he realised the fingers of Castiel’s other hand were around the zipper of Dean’s hoodie, dragging it down unhurriedly, revealing Dean’s white t-shirt underneath.

“Is this alright?” Castiel asked carefully. 

Dean hummed in response, not trusting his voice once the zipper popped open and Cas’ hands left his body for a moment. The plea for Cas to put his hands back on him was on the tip of his tongue, but then slowly—agonizingly slowly—Cas’ fingers slid back over Dean’s chest. They brushed over his t-shirt and curled over his shoulders, sliding Dean’s hoodie off his arms with an air of reverence. The fingers that were worshipping him wrapped around his wrist, helping him blindly take his hands out of the sleeves.

 _Click, click_. The zipper made two small sounds as the hoodie slid off the edge of the bed and hit the floor.

Cas didn’t move and didn’t make a noise for a long time. The silence was so deafening that Dean wasn’t swaying anymore. His ears perked up. He was listening for Cas’ next move. 

Suddenly the silence was filled when Dean felt Cas’ lips against his own, their faces brushing, noses bumping, and lips sliding together, slotted perfectly like they were made for only this. Cas’ mouth parted and Dean leaned forward, his tongue brushing gently over Cas’ bottom lip. 

Dean wanted to lean in and deepen the kiss even more. His hand even began to lift from the mattress with every intention of curling around the back of Cas’ neck and sliding up through his hair, but Cas’ hand was back on his chest, this time pushing forward and down. 

The gentle push guided Dean onto his back, with Cas’ other hand cradling the back of his neck as support. His lips brushed against Dean’s, their faces turning and falling victim to the sensual guidance from their mouths. 

They were shy kisses but there was something extremely erotic about the way Cas was exploring his mouth with his tongue, licking and sucking softly. 

There was also something very erotic about this “touching”. Cas said it wasn’t meant to be sexual but the way Dean’s head was slowly lowered onto a pillow made his fingers curl back and gripping the bed covers tightly. Cas hand was solid against his chest, his breath hot as it puffed over Dean’s lips. 

Cas lifted his face just an inch, breaking contact.

“Is…this all right?” Castiel asked again, panting very softly. His hand on the back of Dean’s neck was trembling very slightly. “I know you’re injured in places. I will try not to hurt you.”

“Yes, it’s all right,” Dean sighed, his fingers cramping as they gripped the covers even harder. “You’re not hurting me.”

When Cas leaned back down and captured his lips again, Dean couldn’t help but think _Fuck, how could this feel so good?_ Cas wasn’t doing anything overtly sexual, other than essentially making love to his mouth with his tongue. The slotting of hot mouths and lingering dance of swollen, pliant lips was secondary to the agonizingly gentle brushing of Cas’ fingers over the soft skin along the inside of Dean’s arms. The dragging fingers left shaking in their wake, electrical shocks of pleasure buzzing under his skin. 

At first Dean hoped he wasn’t trembling like he felt he was, but when Cas’ lips left his and his t-shirt was lifted just an inch, Dean’s entire body shuddered and he had to exhale slowly from his mouth to calm his heartbeat. 

Because of his closed eyes, for the second time, he lost Cas, unsure of where he was when all contact stopped. 

The soft material of his shirt suddenly tickled gently at his skin as it was pushed up further in an achingly slow way. Dean’s eyes slid open and he tilted his head down to watch Cas. 

Castiel’s curious blue eyes, pupils blown open a bit, looked up at Dean from their initial resting place on his stomach. Their gaze met and was held, a strange melt of electricity and hesitancy between them, both unsure of what was happening. Cas’ fingers hovered just a hair’s breath away from the soft skin of Dean’s belly. 

“Um—” Cas licked his lips, his eyes flickering down to glance at Dean’s bare, exposed tummy. “Can I—”

“Yeah,” Dean interrupted, nodding, unsure of what he was agreeing to but not caring. With an audible swallow, Dean murmured, “Yes. Uh, anything you want, Cas. You can…” Dean’s stomach did a little flip. In a whisper that turned out huskier than he’d anticipated, “Cas, you can touch me anywhere you want.”

A curious expression flashed over Cas’ face, like he’d been about to get emotional, but there was little time to dwell on it because he crawled up Dean’s body and pressed a tender, small kiss on Dean’s lips before shuffling back down the bed. 

Dean’s heart did another little flip when Cas climbed over Dean’s leg and settled himself between his thighs, blue eyes looking through his lashes down at Dean’s stomach. The fingers that had hovered over the soft skin there finally made contact. Dean held back from bucking up into the touch, instead settling for another shudder and a slow exhale through his lips.

The fingers traced the soft curve of his tummy, the little soft bit around his belly button, and traveled over his ribs. Nails dragged sensually over the dip of Dean’s hip bones and this time Dean’s back did arch a bit, spine curling off the mattress just an inch, slowly rolling his hips.

He thought perhaps he’d scared Cas off because the hand on his hips lifted off and Dean was left with his cheeks burning. This wasn’t meant to be sexual, he reminded himself. 

_It wasn’t meant to be sexual,_ he repeated with less conviction this time as he heard Cas shuffle further down the bed, feeling his body weight move across the mattress. Then Cas’ hands returned down onto his body, hands curled softly around the curve of his thighs. The loose palms slide up the sides of his legs, smoothing over his hips before then ran down the front of Dean’s legs. 

_It wasn’t meant to be sexual_. Against his will, Dean felt himself grow warm and felt the stirring of arousal, a tingling sensation gathering between his legs.

Cas audibly swallowed and his hands slipped off of Dean’s legs. Cas must have noticed Dean begin to get hard. Dean was convinced he’d ruined it. His eyes slid open with difficulty and he stared at the ceiling for a moment, angry with himself for ruining a moment between them that was supposed to be pure. This was supposed to be a safe experience for Cas and Dean just went and ruined it.

It took almost a full minute of silence and stillness between them before Dean gathered the courage to push himself up on his elbows and finally look at Cas. 

“Cas,” Dean said, feeling like his voice was loud in the thick silence. He opened his lips to apologize but felt suddenly nervous. A lot rode on this—it was their first time actually being physical together after everything between them was out in the open. And Cas needed this to be comfortable, to feel in control. He’d been traumatized, manipulated, and victimized by an evil in ways Dean didn’t even fully understand and he had needed this to feel better. Dean had ruined it with his corrupt, traitorous body.

Cas was sitting on his heels, hands on his thighs, staring across the bed at Dean. He looked thoughtful rather than upset, so Dean bit back the apology and flashed him a small smile instead, hoping that he projected encouragement.

“Everything okay, Cas?”

Cas nodded, maybe a bit too quickly, but he returned Dean’s smile, even if it looked a bit distracted. “Yes. Fine.”

Dean sat up and tugged his shirt down, feeling shy about being exposed all of a sudden. Leaning back on his arms, Dean watched Cas as he seemed to fall deeper into thought, his brow furrowed a bit.

“Are you sure?”

Cas ran a hand over his mouth and nodded again, slower this time. Then his eyes flickered up from the random spot on Dean’s chest that he’d been staring at and actually met Dean’s gaze. Something determined shined in Cas’ eyes.

“I’m thinking… I want you to touch me like _you_ want to touch me.” 

Castiel’s words had Dean’s lips parting a bit in surprise, his brows raised. After a few failed attempts at forming the right question to express his confusion, he asked eloquently, “Uh, what?”

Cas’ hand came back down to his thigh, rubbing at his sweatpants rather nervously. “ I want a real memory. I want to be touched by you like...” Cas seemed lost for words, then he continued, “Like if we came together on our own.”

 _Oh._ Dean’s insides twisted and felt heavy. The mixture of excitement and dread filled his stomach. He wanted so badly to do what Castiel was asking, but he felt terror that he’d do it wrong, that he’d upset him. He didn’t want to scar him further. Because while Cas’ touches were motivated by pure intentions, Dean wasn’t sure Cas was ready for the way Dean wanted to touch him.

“I don’t know, Cas,” Dean shrugged. “I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I think maybe we should—”

“Please,” Cas pleaded firmly, speaking over him, his fingers curling into loose fists. “Dean, I don’t want to be treated like I’m broken. I’ve experienced nothing but that since I fell.”

Dean gestured with his hand between them, “But what happened between you and… and him. He…” 

“I know what he did,” Castiel interrupted again, his voice stern. “He seduced me, Dean. It makes me feel twisted and corrupt but only because it wasn’t you. All of these physical experiences—” Castiel gesture to his own head, teeth clenched like he was starting to get angry. “I had with you were false and counterfeit. I feel robbed. I didn’t deserve to have that intimacy taken from me, Dean.”

Dean’s heart was lodged in his throat. “No, of course not. I—”

“And then on top of the seduction, he drove me insane—enough to lure me out of the bunker to finish his fucking ritual and then I was…” Cas’ eyes, which had wandered off to somewhere over Dean’s shoulder, snapped back to his face, his regularly electric blue eyes a dark shade of sapphire, clouded in a thin veil of turmoil. “He forced himself into my body. It wasn’t completely sexual, it was about dominance, but it was close. I know I deserve punishment for what I did in Heaven, but I don’t think I deserve to have my first human sexual experience be one of terror and pain. Dean, I need you to help me overcome this before it the fear settles in. I can already feel it coiling around my heart. It’s _suffocating_ —”

Dean watched Cas get more and more upset, his neck and the top of his chest turning patchy over the collar of his shirt. He was talking more with his hands and his nose was flaring at bit as he tried so hard to hold back tears. Dean had enough of seeing Cas upset himself, so he pushed off of his arms and quickly crossed the mattress, sitting knee to knee with Cas, reaching out. He caught one of Cas’ hands in the air as he gestured with it.

“You have to help me, Dean. I—What are you doing?” Cas blinked at him as Dean caught the other hand too and gently interlocked their fingers, his grip gentle.

“Touching you like I want to,” Dean explained quietly, his voice low. 

The space between them was closed when Dean leaned forward and swept Cas up in a firm kiss, lips pressed against each other softly, but with a deliberate pressure. Dean felt Cas inhale sharply against his face, but then relax. The other hand, which was balled in a fist in Dean’s grip, relaxed, and they moved together blindly, their fingers curling towards each other, intertwining. 

Unsure of who moved first, Cas rose up onto his knees, while Dean sat on his heels, and let go of one hand so he was free to curl his arm around Cas’ waist. Dean’s head tipped back as Cas shuffled closer on his knees, face tipped down to keep their mouths pressed together, lips moving slowly, their tongues gentle as they caressed one another. 

He wanted to be gentle with Cas, to touch him softly like he’d touched him. So as Cas pressed himself against Dean, Dean released the other hand to curl around the back of his neck. Like Cas did to him, Dean guided him slowly back down onto the bed, holding him close though, their bodies flush against each other, their lips never breaking for air. When Cas’ was lowered onto the bed and his head was gently lowered onto a pillow, a small noise sounded in his throat. 

Dean pulled away and they stared at each other, lips red and wet. Cas’ eyes were wide and he looked, to Dean’s surprise, turned on. A gorgeous flush was spread across Cas’ cheeks and his pupils were blown wide, his lips parted slightly as he breathed hard.

“I won’t hurt you, Cas,” Dean promised in a breath, the proclamation quiet but certain. 

While in the moment he meant physically, there was a swift and solid understanding that passed between them where they knew that statement might not apply to their relationship. Dean Winchester and Castiel hurt each other. It came with the lifestyle they led. Dean would one day hurt Cas and Cas would hurt him back, maybe on purpose but probably by accident. 

Though fuck, if Dean wasn’t going to try his goddamn hardest to guard that exquisite heart that trusted and loved him so much. And he knew Cas would try too.

Cas nodded, their noses brushing. “I know.”

The strength and confidence in Cas’ stare nearly broken Dean. After everything, _everything_ that Cas had gone through in the past few weeks—the pain, the deception, the loneliness, the physical assault, the emotional assault, the fall into insanity and humanity, he was still strong. He still trusted Dean. He was determined, as Cas always was, to embrace humanity.

Dean got to work trying to repair the trauma that the Taker had left on Cas. He lifted his body off of Cas, poised between his thighs, pausing only to stare down at him, hoping—fucking _praying_ —that Cas felt safe. With Cas lying on his back, staring up at Dean with a mixture of caution and determination to not feel frightened, and Dean on his knees, staring down at Cas, hoping to be a source of love and comfort, the two men made an unspoken promise to protect each other.

Dean reached down and pushed Cas’ hair away from his forehead. 

“Close your eyes.”

Cas’ discarded t-shirt slipped off the side of the bed, quickly forgotten after Dean removed it. 

Fingers ran over Cas’ bare skin, tracing his hairline and the shell of his ear. His fingers dragged down Cas’ neck and over his shoulders. 

Dean found out that there was a spot behind Cas ear where he liked to be kissed. And another spot over his left collarbone that made him shudder.

When he had started, Cas’ shoulders were tight, his hands balled in fists and his brows furrowed. By the time Dean was running one finger down the insides of his arms and tickling the thin, soft skin of his wrist with the feather-light touches, the fists had loosed. 

Cas’ brows slowly unfurrowed and he hummed with contentedness when Dean’s lips pressed softly against the dip in his palm.

During a few short moments, Cas seemed upset... but not out of fear. His brows furrowed again and Dean saw his lashes were wet, one tear tumbling down the side of his face, over his temple and into his hair. His chin trembled a bit and Dean could see he was holding back more tears, but Dean didn’t point it out because it only happened every time he pulled down the neck of Cas’ shirt with a curled finger. It happened when he pressed his lips to his collarbone and whispered into the skin there; “I love you.”

It happened again when Dean’s lips, gentle and tender placed a little kiss to Cas’ temple, and his hand curled up into Cas’ hair, resting on top of his head, his fingers tangled in messy brown locks. Cas whimpered when Dean whispered, “I love you” into his skin. Cas’ arms came up around Dean’s neck and squeezed him tightly.

Cas let him go after they spent some time in each other’s arms like that, Dean laying on top of him, held there in an emotional embrace. He used the closeness to leave a trail of feather-light kisses on Cas’ face, lingering on his cheek and dotting them along his jawline. 

When the arms loosened enough for Dean to lift up over Cas’ head, so that his arms were raised up and Cas’ loose fingers grazed the headboard, Dean moved down his body. His strong hands were soft as he ran them down Cas’ arms and down his sides, settling on his hips.

While Cas had asked Dean to touch him like he’d always wanted to, Dean couldn’t help feeling like he was holding back. The very image of Cas lying, open and wanting, on the bed underneath him, hands over his head…it was everything that Dean had ever imagined and more. However, it stirred something inside of him and again, Dean felt like he was taking advantage of him, like he was corrupt. The very existence of lustful thoughts made him feel like he was being an asshole, that he wasn’t being truthful to Cas about how he wanted him. 

But then…when his hands came down to the side of Cas’ thighs, Cas rolled his hips up. Dean’s heart pounded harder as he felt the beginning of a hardening cock be pushed against him. He glanced up and found Cas already watching him, his eyes open, curious and dark, his lips parted a bit. He looked exquisite.

It was the body’s natural reaction to this kind of attention, Dean thought. Hell, he knew all too well how Cas was probably feeling right now, and at first he thought it had been an accident, but when Cas held his gaze and rolled his hips up again, Dean’s heart rate spiked and he felt the rumbling buzz of excitement in the pit of his stomach expand and spread out down his legs.

“I told you, Dean,” Cas rasped, “you can touch me however you want.”

Dean’s breath was hot and shallow, lightly puffing across exposed, tanned hip bone. His heartbeat quickened again and a tingle journeyed through his stomach and crept up his legs, curling around the base of his cock. 

“Cas, you have to be sure. We only just… Cas, we don't have to rush anything.” Dean’s eyes swept over Castiel’s face, secretly excited by the hunger in the steady blue eyes. “This can stay innocent. This can be pure.”

Castiel’s hand carded through Dean’s hair and paused on the back of his head. Then he gently pushed Dean's face down so he forced Dean’s lips to make contact with his bare hip bone. 

“Dean,” Castiel rasped, his head falling back onto the pillow and his eyes sliding closed. His fingers flexed in Dean’s hair. “This _is_ pure.”

He tipped his head back and his back arched up deliciously when Dean dragged his tongue over the dip in his hip bone. It was all the permission Dean needed. 

Dean’s hands slid up over his hips and slid his hands up to Cas' collarbone, mouth latched to the soft flesh of Cas’ lower abdomen. His fingers curled down Cas’ chest, fingers dragging softly over his nipples. 

The strangled noise from Cas throat surprised them both. Dean sat up abruptly to watch Cas’ eyes open, looking glassy with arousal, looking slightly wide with wonder. 

“Do that again.” Cas breathed, his eyes sliding closed once more. “I want you to touch me like that again.”

Dean almost came in his pants when Cas legs spread on either side of his hips and he watched him get hard, stretching the fabric of his sweatpants. His eyes traced the outline of Cas’ cock through the material. His mouth watered.

With his own spine curling, Dean dipped down and dragged the flat of his tongue over Cas’ nipple, the other rolled between his fingers. 

Cas hands snapped up to Dean's back, his nails leaving red trails across freckled skin and dug into the nape of Dean's neck as he gasped and tilted his head back, pushing his chest up against Dean’s lips. The sounds he made from his throat had Dean's cock tighten and go rock hard. Involuntarily, his hips curled forward a bit and their hard cocks slid across each other. 

Dean pulled back quickly, anxious that he’d gone too far. Carefully, he slid himself back a couple inches and sat up straight, replacing his mouth with his fingers, teasing the hard buds with gentle twists and slow rubbing. To Dean’s cautious delight, Cas dragged his teeth over his bottom lip and grunted a bit when Dean’s nails softly traced his nipples. Again, the hips just inches from Dean’s lifted a bit, searching for contact, but Dean was apprehensive to touch him there just yet.

Still, the cock which strained through Cas’ sweatpants was obviously longing to be stroked. It needed to be touched. Dean had an idea.

“Turn over,” his voice commanded gently. His hands left the hard, dark nipples and instead coaxed Cas onto his stomach. Cas allowed it, though Dean noticed the muscles in his shoulders tighten and go rigid as he settled on his stomach and pushed himself up onto his elbows. 

The tension straining those muscles didn’t go unnoticed. Dean could feel the mood change and he almost regretted his decision, but instead of backpedaling, he got to work. 

Careful to not press his erection up against Cas, Dean backed up a bit, placing small, soft kisses up the lean, muscular back. His hands slid up Cas’ thighs. One hand found its resting place splayed flat across Cas’ lower back, while the other came up and curled around the side of his waist. 

With deliberate, strategic gentle pressure, he guided Cas into rolling his hips down against the mattress. Dean knew he was successful when Cas’ forehead dropped down onto the pillow and he moaned a delicious, long, deep moan.

Dean did it again, coaching Cas’ hips down into the mattress once, then again. Dean raised his body slightly, lips leaving Cas’ shoulder blade, so he could watch the erotic sight. His eyes darkened and his eyelids were heavy with lust as he finally got to see that back he fantasized about curling and twisting down, arching and flexing. The lean, smooth muscles of Cas’ back worked as he rolled his hips down into the firm mattress, his cock no doubt finding a firm escape from the thrumming pressure. His shoulders flexed and worked as he let Dean move his body for him, coaching and guiding him through waves of pleasure. 

When Dean’s hands left his lower back and waist, Cas sunk down onto the mattress, no longer holding himself up. His elbows and arms were tucked under his body, and Dean suspected that by the gentle flexing of Cas’ biceps that Cas was brushing his fingers over his own nipples. The thought forced Dean to stop moving for a moment. He had to shut his eyes and focus to stop himself from coming right then and there. 

His eyes snapped open in surprise when Cas’ hand was on his hip. The angle was a bit awkward and Dean had no idea when Cas had shimmied his arm out from under him, but the silent command was obvious. The fingers on Deans hips were tugging and urging him forward. With a shy hesitance, Dean closed the space between them and pushed his aching, weeping cock between the soft curves of Cas’ ass. The gasp that was pulled from him was involuntary when Cas very gently pushed back against it.

Dean’s lips found themselves back on Cas’ shoulder blades, their bodies flush together as he bent over and laid down on top of Cas. One hand was pressed against the mattress to hold himself up, and the other hand found Cas’, their fingers linked beside Cas’ face, which was turned out to the side now. 

It was so tempting to rock forward and fuck his cock up against the curve of Cas’ ass, but Dean held back, knowing that he was walking a thin line, even if Cas had been the one to push him to that line. He knew Cas was trying to be brave, but Dean knew all to well that what Cas needed to get over this was baby steps, not to feed himself to the wolves. 

Dean dragged the tip of his nose over Cas’ tight shoulders and kissed gently up his neck. Despite how nervous he undoubtedly knew Cas was—even though Cas’ cock was trying to tell them both otherwise—he saw a small, shy smile curl the corners of Cas’ lips.

Dean squeezed the fingers in his hands gently and he placed a quick peck on Cas’ cheek, following the kiss with a playful swipe up with the tip of his nose. Cas lifted his head and the smile widened. 

“I love you,” Dean said again. Blue eyes glittered happily at him and made his stomach feel light and airy. Again, he placed a quick kiss on Cas’ cheek. The head of messy brown hair fell back down to the pillow and Cas’ shoulders visibly relaxed.

But when Dean went to intertwine their free hands, he noticed Cas’ was balled into a fist.

Dean stared at the fist and he felt arousal fade away into the background, his stomach no longer light and airy. It filled with dread and anxiety. Cas was still, too.

After long moments of silence, Dean turned his head back to watch the side of Cas’ face. While Cas looked fairly all right, he did notice the subtle grazing of teeth against his bottom lip. He was nervous.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, setting his chin on Cas’ shoulder. “The Taker… did he, um…”

Castiel’s eyes watched the corner of his bedside table, suddenly looking torn between anger and shame. Flatly, he asked, “Did he…fuck me?”

God, he couldn’t believe how easily those horrific words fell from Cas’ lips. As funny as it was in normal circumstances when Cas’ swore, it felt sickening now. He missed the Cas who would might have instead said, “Did he… have sexual intercourse with me?”

“Yeah. Did he, uh…fuck you...like this?”

“Yes.” And goddamn it, Cas’ voice was small. Dean felt a sudden swelling of rage again, furious with the Taker.

“Fuck,” Dean whispered, and immediately regretted it. Cas turned as much as he could to look at Dean, his face looking regretful, his eyes a bit wide.

“But Dean, I can’t let it taint what we have here. I know I told you not to expect anything sexual, but…I can’t deny, now that I’m here, that I don’t want it.” Cas looked torn. “I just…”

It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t fair that Cas was traumatized and it wasn’t fair what happened to him. But Dean realised suddenly that it also wasn’t fair for Dean to decide that Cas wasn’t ready for intimacy in this way. Cas wanted it and if he needed to have sex to feel comfortable in his own skin again, then it wasn’t anyone’s choice but his own. 

Dean planted another kiss on his cheek and he was relieved when Cas looked slightly less worried.

“Let’s try something different,” Dean said as he sat up and broke their contact. His hand slipped out of Cas’. He threw his legs off the side of the bed and stood. 

Cas quickly sat up, looking confused. “Where are you going?”

“Hold on. Just give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Dean left Cas’ room and hurried to his own next door. Quickly, he crossed the room in three strides and yanked open his bedside drawer, trembling hands rummaging through the contents. 

He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

As Dean walked back to the room, his heart hammered against his chest and his stomach kept doing excited, nervous little backflips. 

When he walked back in through the doorway, Cas was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at the floor with a frown and a worried downward tilt of his brow. He looked surprised when Dean’s feet pattered back into the room, and his eyes flitted down to the bottle of lube in Dean’s hand.

“I thought you’d left. I didn’t think you’d come back—” 

He was quickly silenced when Dean stopped in front of him and leaned in quickly to place a firm kiss on Cas’ cheek. He could have kissed his lips but he adored the way Cas’ teeth flashed in a quick smile whenever he kissed his face instead.

Cas did smile a bit, but the gesture turned hesitant when Dean offered him the bottle of lube. 

Cas took it and stared down at the bottle in his hand uncertainly. Slowly, he said, “I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

Then with as much courage as he could muster, his eyes still locked on Cas’, Dean wrapped his fingers around the bottom of his shirt and pulled it up slowly. He allowed himself to enjoy the quick way Cas’ eyes flickered down to his chest and stomach, and went dark, blue irises thinning as his pupils dilated. 

The shirt pooled to the ground beside Dean’s feet and with hands that trembled, he began slipping his hands into the hips of his pants. He hooked his thumbs on the outside, pausing. 

Cas’ brows slowly relaxed and unfurrowed, lifting slightly. His mouth was parted as he stared at the waistband of Dean’s pants inching slowly down his hips, slipping over hip bone and pelvic bone. They paused there for a moment as Dean read Cas face. But when nothing but lust and curiosity populated the cobalt gaze, Dean pushed sweatpants down, letting them slip from his fingers and puddle over his feet. 

He bent down to retrieve the pants and threw them onto the bed by the headboard. Then he stood up straight again, his hands hanging at his sides.

Dean’s breath was admittedly shallow, his palms clammy as he nervously stood in front of Cas, naked, his heart in his stomach. 

While Cas’ injuries had healed after his purification, Dean was still pretty rough looking. His body wasn’t as beautiful as Cas’. The burn on his hand was bandaged and there was blood under his nails from the torture the Taker had inflicted on him. He had bruises on his chest and back, his arms were scraped up from the locker, and there was a little red divot on his chest from the letter opener. Not to mention he had a nasty goose egg on the back of his head and a tender bruise on his nose still. 

Dean felt ridiculously ugly compared to Cas, but for some reason, Cas was still staring at him in wonder, his eyes void of any judgment or disgust.

Dean swallowed hard and nodded to the bottle of lube in Cas’ hand.

“Do you understand now, Cas?”

Cas was unashamedly staring at Dean’s cock, his lips pressing together after a moment, his tongue running over the bottom one.

“Yes.” He swallowed. “I understand.”

Dean inhaled shakily, his eyes vulnerable and slightly wide. “Did he… do that with you?”

Cas shook his head. “No.”

“Do you want to?”

Cas’ gaze immediately snapped up to Dean’s face. “Dean, are you certain? You have to be certain.”

Dean smiled, and he knew he probably looked nervous, but he shrugged to let Cas know he was all right. “I’m sure. I want you to. I think you’ll like it.”

Cas’s hand came up and he rubbed it over his mouth, eyes sweeping down Dean’s naked, exposed body.

“Will you?”

“Yeah.”

“What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t.”

“Dean...”

Dean stepped forward and his smile widened, his shoulders hitching as he laughed a bit. His fingers carded through the front of Cas’ hair, pushing cool, soft brown locks away from his forehead. Cas’ eyes fluttered a bit, leaning into the hand as it settled on his jaw.

“You won’t,” Dean assured softly. “I trust you.”

The mood changed.

Minutes later, the stiffness in Cas’ shoulders disappeared and the only fists Cas’ hands made were around Deans’ shaft, slipping up and down with a deliberate pressure. His fingers and palm slid around the tip with a deliciously slow drag that made Dean feel like his soul was being lifted from Hell all over again. He was brought back to life, his inhales ragged and deep like he was breathing air for the first time.

Cas was purposeful with his touches, his hands confident now, like the previous session of soft touches had been strategic practice for the real thing. He placed wet kisses up along Dean’s sternum and along the top of his chest, his lips dragging over Dean’s collarbone and up his neck, moaning like Dean tasted delicious. 

His hands weren’t hurried or frantic, they alternated between firm and grazing, whispering touches across skin. Dean was open now, free to enjoy this because Cas was comfortable, clearly lacking fear or trepidation as he was given control.

Even when Cas grabbed the lube bottle that had been thrown haphazardly onto the bed somewhere, and even when he admitted he was unsure of how to proceed, he lacked hesitancy. 

When Dean squeezed lube onto this fingers and guided him by the wrist, whispering instructions to him, Cas didn’t shy away and his hands didn’t shake. When his finger slide into the tight ring of muscle, it was slow and attentive. 

His eyes watched Dean’s face, openly aroused and hot for the way Dean’s back arched and his hands pushed up against the headboard, sliding himself down around Cas’ finger until he was completely sheathed around the entire length.

Cas wasn’t frightened or hesitant when he finger-fucked Dean slowly, his other hand not timid when it massaged the end of Dean’s cock, slipping and twisting languidly, his fist loose like this wasn’t his first rodeo.

Dean was the nervous one. Nervous and maddeningly turned on. He hadn’t been fucked like this since he was twenty. Though that time had been on a shitty motel bed with a guy he’d met during one of his first solo-cases. And in no way did the way that guy had jackhammered his fingers in Dean’s ass even remotely compared to the sweet, delicious way Cas was making him melt with every erotic slow drag of his finger.

Dean wanted this to last, he wanted to let Cas take his time and he wanted to spend as many hours as he could in Cas’ arms. At the same time, he couldn’t help splaying his fingers, pressing his palms into the headboard, and fucking himself down on Cas’ fingers, which were three now, stretching Dean in a careful, but completely hot way. Cas’ thumb pressed against the skin under his balls, pressing against his prostate from the outside, the thumb acting as an anchor as he pumped his fingers slowly, blue eyes darkly watching through his lashes, entirely enraptured with the visual of Dean stretched around his fingers.

Dean had been right: Cas was going to like this.

“Am I hurting you?” Cas asked when Dean suddenly cried out. Dean struggled for a moment to find words. Cas had curled his fingers up, pressing firmly against his prostate. That, and the combined pressure of his thumb and the twist around the head of his cock had been overwhelming. He’d very nearly come all over Cas’ hand.

“Do I look hurt?” Dean whispered roughly, his voice wrecked.

Cas hands stilled and his eyes went soft. “No,” he murmured, smiling. “You look beautiful.”

Romantic sex wasn’t something Dean was a foreigner to. He loved it. As much as he bragged of raunchy bar-bathroom sex, he more often than not enjoyed the slower, more intimate kind of sex, even if it was with strangers. 

But the words exchanged in those scenarios were empty, they were just for show. The words exchanged between him and Cas in the last few hours were so fucking real that Dean found his eyes stinging with unshed tears. His hands came down from the headboard and he pushed himself up into a seated position. 

“Look who’s talking,” Dean murmured, flashing Cas a real, beaming smile. His hand reached out and Cas’ met him in the middle, their fingers curling together, palms pressed firmly against each other. Their lips followed as Dean rose up, and Cas fingers slipped out of Dean’s slick hole, his arm wrapping around Dean’s waist to pull him close, so that they were flush against each other and their lips locked, tongues teasing.

Dean moaned into Cas’ mouth as his own cock slid up between their stomachs, pleasure shooting down his cock from the tip, pooling at the base and sending warm waves up to his belly and down his legs. He became hyper-aware of Cas’ thick cock sliding against his ass and suddenly he felt intensely empty, needing to be filled.

Cas seemed to have the same idea, because he slowly leaned forward and Dean found himself on his back again, Cas on top of him. On their own accord, Dean’s legs lifted and wrapped around Cas’ waist. It was Cas’ turn to moan into their impassioned kiss when he curled his back and slid his cock along Dean’s slippery, tight entrance.

Blindly, Dean felt around for his pants that’d thrown onto the bed and fumbled into the pocket, otherwise busy kissing Cas breathlessly. But Cas pulled away, looking fucking ruined and enchanting with his lips red and wet, his eyes confused and yet still completely ablaze.

Dean released their hands and quickly, with shaking fingers carefully opened a condom wrapper, throwing it away rapidly before he paused to pant, the realization of what was happening catching up to him.

“Do you really want this, Cas?” Dean breathed, his eyes alight with nervousness, darting around Cas’ face, taking in his features, searching desperately for any hint that Cas wasn’t comfortable or wanting. 

But he found nothing of the sort. Castiel stared, his mouth parted a bit, breathing quickly. “I did all of this for you. Everything that led me here was for you, Dean. Of course I want this.”

Dean’s reply was lost as his lips were captured again. They slipped against Cas’ hungrily, their brows furrowed, their movements determined and impassioned. The condom was taken from Dean, pulled gently from his fingers.

They broke apart and stared at each other for a moment. 

Then Cas got to his knees in between Dean’s legs. Dean watched Cas slide the condom on like he’d done it hundreds of times before. Dean didn’t get much time to wonder when or how or with who, because Cas bent over him again, almost falling. 

After coating his hand with a thick layer of lube, Dean reached between them and touched Cas’ cock for the first time, his heart swelling. 

It was happening. This was finally happening with Cas. How many years had he fantasized about this? And not just the sex. How long had he waited to be close to Cas, to be able to freely say what he wanted and tell Cas with every presented opportunity that he loved him? The nightmare that was their lives—not just in the past few weeks, but over the last few years—had made this reality seem like a farfetched dream. Dean had convinced himself it was never going to happen and yet through heartache and bloodshed they still found each other. Dean dreaded the moment when Cas would roll off of him because he irrationally feared he would wake up and they would still be in their nightmare of a life where everything hurt and Cas didn’t know he was loved.

With Dean’s guidance, both with his hand and with the firm pressure of his thighs pulling Cas towards him, Castiel slipped into Dean.

A gasping breath was torn from Dean and he tipped his head back, his eyes sliding shut. The sensation of being completely filled was overwhelming in every exquisite way possible. He wanted Cas to move but simultaneous wished to stay like this always.

“Are you alright?” Cas breathed, his voice hoarse and broken. “Did I hurt you?”

Cas’ hands were in his hair and on his face, stroking the side of his head and brushing his thumb over Dean’s temple, his other hand gripping the hair gently on the top of Dean’s head. Dean shook his head and gripped at Cas’ shoulders and back, his fingers flexing.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alright in my life,” Dean murmured, surging up to capture those lips again. They kissed for a few moments before Dean pulled back and asked, “You?”

“This was exactly what I needed,” Castiel responded, swallowing audibly. His fingers loosened in Dean’s hair and his hand slipped around Dean’s waist, pulling him closer. 

Again, Dean didn’t have time or the will to care where or with whom Cas learned to move his hips like he did, but with every roll of those hips, Dean felt lost. Lost and also found, finding a home in the lips on his neck and the messy head of hair tickling his face and the hot, thick cock sliding into him. They melted together, a tangle of arms and legs and fervent mouths looking for purchase. 

Dean’s thighs squeezed Cas’ waist and he urged him to go faster with heels dug into the back Cas’ thighs. 

The noises Cas made were enough to make him want to come, but the sliding of those lean back muscles flexing under his hands was a close second. 

He drank in the tingling that built up and pooled between his legs as Cas’ breathing picked up and his back curled deliciously, arching back and forward, his pace picking up. Dean never pinned Cas as a talker, but with every rasp of “yes” and with every gasp of Dean’s name, it made his toes curl.

Cas lifted himself off of Dean and uncurled his arm from his waist, his hands settling on either side of his head. Dean surged up, supporting himself on his elbow, the other arm reaching up to run down Cas’ chest, his finger brushing over his nipple, then curling over his stomach, leaving red marks down the slick tan skin. 

“Again.” Cas’ head fell to his chest, his hair falling to his forehead, eyes sliding shut.

Dean’s fingers raked back up Cas’ stomach and his palms smoothed over the flexing, tight muscles of Cas’ chest, fingers settling again on hard buds, his fingers twisting and pulling, flicking and brushing nipples until he could feel the change in Cas’ rhythm as he fucked him, his cock pumping into Dean with a fervour. 

With every hard push in, with every heavenly curve forward of his hips, Cas hit the right spot, over and over until Dean felt like he might go mad. He had tried so hard to hold out, to last longer, because fuck, he never wanted this to end. 

“Cas,” his words came out ragged, his teeth dragged across his bottom lip, “I’m… I’m gonna come—”

He was cut off by Cas dropping down to his elbows again and sliding his arm under the pillows, slipping up to Dean’s shoulders and holding him close. 

“Yes,” he breathed, his breath hot against Dean’s lips. “Come for me.”

Dean’s orgasm was ripped from him, rumbling through his body and making his eyes roll back. He came in hot spurts between them, his cock pulsing and pumping come over his stomach and Cas’ too. Their lips met to kiss but Dean cried out as Cas rocked up against his prostate. The sensation circuited, shuddering back and forth, up to the tip of his cock and Dean found himself riding a wave of bliss that made him cry out.

Unsurprisingly, Cas was close behind him and Dean wrapped his arms around Cas tightly when Cas inhaled sharply and gasped into his mouth as his orgasm wracked through his body, leaving Cas shaking in Dean’s arms. Dean almost got hard again as he felt hot come pump into him with every pulse and squeeze of Cas’ orgasm, making him feel full and unbelievably close to Cas.

Dean’s fingers slipped up Cas back and carded through the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck. Their kiss was broken when Cas’ forehead rested on Dean’s shoulder, his hot puffs of breath curling over Dean’s skin.

“Cas, are you—”

“I love you,” Cas breathed, the words brushed against Dean’s collarbone with Cas’ lips.

Cas’ arms wrapped around Dean’s shoulders, holding him as close as he could without them completely melting into each other. 

Again, Dean’s eyes stung as tears welled up for the second time. This had to be a dream. 

The head of hair resting on his shoulder shifted and Cas buried his face in Dean’s neck.

“I love you,” he repeated, pressing a kiss into the dip at the bottom of Dean’s throat. “Thank you.”

His body slowly returned to normal, no longer shaking with the aftermath of the most intense experience he’d potentially ever had. Cas was still inside him but Dean didn’t want to break apart yet. He felt happier than he had in years. He wanted to lay under Cas as long as he could.

Cas seemed to have the same idea because he didn’t move. He shuffled a bit on Dean’s shoulder and nestled in closer while his breath evened out. Dean shifted underneath him, legs spreading a bit and relaxing, sinking into the mattress.

“Should I move?” Cas whispered against his throat. 

Dean responded by squeezing his arms around Cas’s shoulders and holding him still. He turned his head and buried his nose in Cas’ hair, inhaling deeply.

“In a bit,” he murmured, inhaling the lingering smell of shampoo and Cas’ natural scent of cinnamon and linen. The smell unfurled and dissolved any remaining anxiety and tension that had settled in Dean’s heart over the past few months. A strangely warm, calm feeling settled inside of him. With a small jolt, he realised he felt contentment—true contentment. 

“No, I lied. I never want you to move,” Dean amended, curling his one arm tighter around Cas’ head, pressing his lips to Cas’ hair. “I never want you to leave.”

Cas was quiet for a long time and Dean thought maybe he’d fallen asleep, but then he felt the tip of Cas’ finger trace the outline of his shoulder. The featherlight touch traced the skin there for a while, drawing patterns and pictures that Dean couldn’t decipher. Then the hand rested gently around his shoulder, settling there.

“What do we do now?” Cas asked.

Dean nudged his nose into Cas’ hair again. “Clean up. You get your shit and move it into my room, or I’ll bring my stuff in here. We’ll get Sam to bring us food and water when we need it. We burn that fucking hell book and if it doesn’t light on fire, we strap cinder blocks to it and throw it into the middle of the fucking ocean. Then we come back here and we buy a TV to put on the dresser and we never leave this bed.”

Again, that foreign feeling of contentedness unfurled inside of his chest when he felt Cas smile against his skin and heard a little rumble of laughter muffled against his collarbone. God, it was such a nice sound. It had been… well, honestly, years since he heard Cas laugh.

“That’s a good plan, Dean,” Cas murmured, his thumb on Dean’s shoulder brushing his skin softly. “It solves few of our problems, but it is tempting.”

Cas’ lips pressed against his neck and he shifted, gently pulling away from Dean. With a heavy heart, Dean uncurled his arms from around Cas’ shoulders, feeling cold where Cas had been pressed against him moments earlier. 

He watched Cas lift himself off of Dean, and they both winced at the sticky mess between them. Cas leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed the damp towel from his shower.

Over the next few minutes, Cas wiped them both down, smiling softly. Dean smiled at Cas smiling and let him drag the towel over his skin and between his legs. Dean had to get up to really get clean and sort out the mess, but it was sweet to watch anyway.

Dean eventually left to go have another quick shower. 

Once he was clean and he exited the bathroom, Cas was on his way in and for a panicked moment, Dean didn’t know how to act outside of the bedroom. He thought Cas might just walk by him. He worried it might be weird. He found himself pausing outside the door as Cas approached him.

But as they crossed paths at the bathroom door, Cas reached up, his hand curling around Dean’s neck, and they kissed in the doorway. It was perhaps meant to be quick, but the two men stood in the doorway for minutes, kissing lazily, breaking apart at the end with red, slick lips turned into toothy smiles.

“Go to my room,” Castiel said quietly, with optimism in his tone and a happy glint in his eye. “I’ll be quick.”

“Sure,” Dean nodded, trying to sound cool. But when Cas disappeared through the door and Dean was left alone in the hall, he grinned. Dean walked back to Cas’ room with a beaming smile on his face and fingers pressed against his mouth.

He went back to his own room first to change, then he checked in on Sam, who was passed out on the bed, his injured hand resting on a pillow, an ice pack melting into the sheets. Music played through earbuds still nestled in Sam’s ears. Dean blushed as he wondered if Sam had put them in to avoid hearing other things.

Dean replaced the ice pack quietly, set water and Sam’s next dosage of painkillers on the nightstand, pulled blankets over him, and turned off the lights. Sam’s door closed behind him quietly and Dean turned to check on Kevin.

Two steps towards Kevin’s room and Dean stopped dead in his tracks. The quiet of the bunker seemed deafening when Dean remembered that Kevin’s body and head were wrapped in a tarp in the trunk of the Impala. Kevin was dead. There was no Kevin to check up on. Kevin was gone.

Picking up the pieces of his heart and forcing one foot in front of the other, Dean found himself walking towards Kevin’s room. He opened the door slowly and clicked on the light with a trembling hand. His sinuses tightened and Dean felt a warm tear run down the side of his face as he looked around. His footsteps were uncomfortably loud in Kevin’s room as he wandered the small space, picking up Kevin’s scratchy notes and staring at his scribbles and scratchy, messy handwriting that he’d always made fun of. He ran his hands over hoodies and scarves that hung from the hooks in the corner. 

A book was still open, cover facing up on the bed where Kevin had left it last. The sheets were rumpled and the bed was unmade.

Kevin’s signature rebuttal rang out so clearly Dean could have sworn he was in the room: _What’s the point of making the bed if I’m just gonna sleep in it again later?_

Dean sniffed and exhaled shakily as he made Kevin’s bed for him, setting the book back down on top of the pillow when he was done. For some reason, he folded down the corner to mark the page. He didn’t know why. Kevin wasn’t going to get back to it ever.

Dean sat on the bed when his knees began going weak. Purposefully, he took deep breaths through his nose and exhaled through his mouth as grief trembled through his veins. He hadn’t realised he had his eyes shut until he opened them and saw Mrs. Tran staring up at him from a picture framed on the nightstand.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean whispered.

The bed sunk down beside him. 

Dean looked over and Cas, as he lowered himself down onto the bed, stared at him sadly. Cas’ hand came up to Dean’s shoulder and it squeezed. The fresh, warm smell of Cas was at least slightly comforting.

Dean wiped at his face and tried to smile but it was small and sad. Cas tried too, but it ultimately failed.

“We’ll finish his work,” Castiel said quietly. “All of his sacrifices won’t be in vain.”

Dean nodded, wiping the other side of his face before his hand fell to the bed and his pinky linked with Cas’.

“I know.” Dean laughed a bit, though he thought it sounded like of pathetic. “Though I’m pretty sure Kevin hated ‘his work’ and he hated his ‘sacrifices’.” 

“You’re right,” Cas nodded. “But we’ll finish it anyway because he spent too much of his life on it and he would want his duties completed so no one else would have the suffer the same. Then we’ll find a way to truly honour him.”

Dean stared at Cas’ face, heartbroken to see the features arranged into a sad expression, Cas’ blue eyes glistening as he stared at Mrs. Tran’s face.

“We’ll translate the tablets,” Dean agreed. Cas’ eyes glanced over to him. Dean squeezed Cas’ little finger. “We’ll figure out the angels too. We’ll get them back to Heaven. We’ll kick Metatron’s teeth in and we’ll get your wings back, Cas.”

A strange expression crossed Cas’ face. One corner of his lips turned down into a frown and his brows knitted together.

Dean’s heart squeezed painfully at the thought of Cas leaving the bunker, of donning the trenchcoat again and flying away to Heaven. They just came together like they’d always meant to and already Dean was grieving the inevitable loss he’d feel when Cas left him forever. One day it was going to happen; Cas would leave. He’d return to Heaven, he’d resume his holy mission, he’d leave Dean behind.

“My wings…” Cas whispered, eyes leaving Dean’s face and staring off, his eyes unfocused like he was being pulled into deep thought.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered with a fake cheerfulness that broke him. “Your wings, their wings—the other angels. We’ll find a way to save them. We put it off for too long and I’m so sorry, Cas. If we’d helped you with this earlier, things might have turned out different.”

Cas didn’t say anything, he just stared at the wall. Dean swallowed and continued, “We’ll find your grace. Everything will go back to the way it was.”

“The way it was,” Cas repeated again, his voice strange.

Dean searched Cas’ face. “Isn’t that what you want?”

Blue eyes finally returned to Dean’s face and Cas tilted his head a bit. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I want my brothers and sisters to re-enter Heaven. I… I’ll admit I would like nothing more than to watch Metatron face justice.”

Dean felt a “but” lingering on the tip of Cas’ tongue.

“But…?” 

Cas seem to struggle. He shifted his position on the bed, pulling his knee up, tucking his ankle under his other leg. He swallowed, his throat bobbing.

Quietly, like he was anxious someone would hear, Cas explained, “But my grace… it would make me an angel. Dean, I… don’t know if I want to be an angel.”

The air grew heavy and Dean leaned away from Cas, his face twisted in confusion. “What? Cas, why would you say that? You… you’ve been miserable since you fell. Being an angel is what you are, what you’ll always be—”

“I have chosen free will,” Cas explained, interrupting with a fire in his tone. “I’ve admired humanity without ever truly understanding it until now. I thought I knew pain and wonder and love as an angel, but knowing how emotions truly feel now… Dean, I can’t go back.

“The next time I enter Heaven will be with you,” Cas murmured, staring into Dean’s eyes. “A real heaven. Ours. My soul and yours.”

“But…” Dean began to speak, but then realised his words were caught in his throat. His natural instinct was to run from these feelings, from the indirect devotion Cas was confessing, from the commitment he was entangling himself in, but Dean found himself making a home in the sentiment. 

He didn’t feel fear, he only felt comfort. He felt hope.

“You and Sam,” Cas continued, looking inspired, “you have saved humanity over and over. You’ve fought the forces of Heaven and Hell alike and you did it all as humans. It was your power to love and feel and hurt that gave you the advantage, every time.” Cas licked his lips and Dean almost looked away, overwhelmed by the conviction in Cas’ stare. “This experience with the Taker was a torment. I feel broken and angry about it. I still feel the gnawing rage in the pit of my stomach about Metatron, and I feel agony and guilt about the angels.”

“That sounds fucking terrible,” Dean replied roughly, eyes stinging. 

“Yes,” Cas nodded. “But I want to feel these things. How can I choose to become an angel again and leave this earth? I can fix Heaven and I can help my brothers and sisters as a human. I can live a life down here, I can grow old and die like a human… I feel, now, like this is where I’ve always meant to end up. I’ve already been an angel. I’ve been an angel since the beginning of time and I want something else now. _This_ is free will. I want to choose something for me, I want to _truly_ choose humanity. I—”

Cas hadn’t realised it, but he was crying, his cheeks wet in the lamplight. Dean cut his speech short with a crushing hug. Cas’ arms came up with an equal amount of vigor. He squeezed Dean’ hard.

Cas’ lips trembled against Dean’s shoulder. “Every choice I’ve made has led up to this. I want to save Heaven but I’ll do it as myself, as the form of myself that is real. I don’t belong in Heaven. I belong down here. I always claimed to have chosen humanity, but I never truly experienced it. Now that I have it, I can’t let it go. I want to do better, I want to learn how.”

“Please, Cas,” Dean choked out, “don’t do this for me. Please tell me this isn’t about me.”

“For once,” Cas replied with the ghost of a laugh on his tongue, “it’s not, Dean. This is for me.”

Dean nodded fervently and then pulled away, sliding his hands up Cas’ neck and up over his face, his hands on Cas’ cheeks, his thumbs brushing his cheekbones. Cas was staring at him with glistening eyes that whirled and stormed with passion, and fear, and so much love that Dean felt dizzy.

“Be with me,” Cas whispered. “Let me stay here with you.”

“Let you stay?” Dean laughed, a tear slipping over his smile. “Cas, you already live here—”

“You know what I meant,” Cas replied in a small tearful laugh, still managing to sound grumpy with his voice all thick and watery.

“You can stay,” _here with me,_ said Dean. He reached up and pushed Cas’ bangs back, grinning. “You can stay with me for as long as you can handle it. But first let’s move your stuff into my room—I wasn’t kidding. We’ll get you settled, we’ll give Sam time to heal, we’ll sort out these tablets, save the angels, set Metatron on fire, and destroy that fucking book.”

Cas grinned, managing to look absurdly beautiful as he laughed and cried. “Any suggestions on how we dispose of the Taker’s book?”

“You mean other than losing it in the ocean or dropping it into a volcano?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Well, first thing I can teach you about dealing with human emotions; destroying stuff makes you feel better. Like, a lot better,” Dean chuckled, wiping at Cas’ cheeks with his hands. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “I got a chainsaw in the garage that has that book’s name all over it. Wanna try it?”

Cas smirked. 

“I knew you would be a great teacher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I had to sneak a chainsaw in there somewhere...it was the right thing to do.)
> 
> You made it! 
> 
> This is the end. I hope you enjoyed reading this fic. I spent six months with this baby and sometimes I wasn't sure if I was gonna make it. But thanks to the DCBB author family who supported me and each other over at the Discord, MalMuses (my spectacular alpha), all my betas (Kazshero, EllenOfOz, and son_of_a_bitch_supernatural), and my amazingly talented artist partner, jdragon122... I MADE IT. I DID THE THING. WE DID THE THING. 
> 
> We did it, y'all.
> 
> See you next year for the 2019 DCBB.
> 
> It's been swell. 
> 
> jscribbles


End file.
